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No. 102] APPLETONS’ & om - 

Town and Country Library 


PUBLISHED SEMI-MONTHLY September x; 1892 $10.00 PER ANNUM 


a ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ mi ■ ■ ■ ■ p ■ « 


In Old St. Stephen’s 


By JEANIE DRAKE 



*- 


ENTERED AT THE PQ8T-OFFICE AT NEW YORK A9 SECOND-CLASS 


MATTER 


"3fr 


D. APPLETON & CO., NEW YORK 


: 


APPLETONS 

COJNTRY; 
LIBRARY 


SEMI-MONTHLY 



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X). APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street, New York. 



IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S 


A NOVEL 


JEANIE 



DRAKE 

w 



D. 


NEW YORK 

APPLETON AND COMPANY 


1892 


gQP 


lpf\ 


Copyright, 1892, 

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 


PREFACE. 


After I had accompanied the remains of my be- 
loved grandfather, to be laid by his command in the 
family burial-place at Woodhurst, by the side of his 
brother, I found on my return North that his personal 
belongings — his papers especially — were left to me to 
be destroyed or used at my discretion. It was natural 
that I, his youngest grandson and his favorite, owing 
to the strong likeness, doubtless, in face and manner, 
which I am said to bear to my great-uncle Miles, 
should believe — from the deep interest himself and his 
society always held for me — that these passages from 
his journal might not seem entirely dull to others. 

The enjoyment that his company gave to me, how- 
ever, was independent of his life before I knew him. 
So active, alert, and keenly interested in the issue of 
each present hour was he, that but for a ceremonious, 
old-time politeness, and his snowy hair, in striking 
contrast with his dark eyes and skin, he might have 
been a contemporary. The great, almost inconceiv- 
able changes of the last quarter of a century in his be- 
loved south country gave me an eager curiosity to hear 


IV 


PREFACE. 


of his youthful days. But on that subject he would 
not talk, turning me off always with a smiling “No, 
you shall not tempt me into a babbling second child- 
hood and ‘anecdotage. ’ I may write these things for 
you some day; but in the mean while tell me of the 
play last night. And is it worth my going to see? I 
remember Mr. Booth’s father, and the son is much the 
greater artist.” 

It was with a heavy sense of loss that I came back 
from my last mournful journey with him. I know 
among my youthful friends no companion so congenial, 
no intimate, bearing, under great reserve of manner, 
so gentle and tender a spirit as my dear grandfather’s. 

Miles Ashley Vanderlyn. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S 


INTRODUCTORY. 

When all the world and Love and I were young, I 
did not really believe I should ever grow old. The 
ardent youth which confronted me in a mirror g.nd 
coursed swiftly along my veins seemed myself, one and 
inseparable. It is not when the Olympic dust flies 
from the racer’s car-wheels, or he wanders with Phyl- 
lis in the grove, that he can picture an inevitable day 
when, with dim eyes weary of such scenes, he will quietly 
await, by the side of the dark river, his passage over. 
One mental provision I made, however, in a vague way, 
for that shadowy future. I have seen my brother, 
after a hard day’s hunt, lulled into involuntary slumber 
by an old lady's diffuse praise of the past; and I have 
myself suffered, sometimes, from the garrulity of 
age, for which the manners of my time insured a most 
respectful attention. So I early practised keeping an 
occasional record of daily scenes and incidents, and thus 
am enabled, now that I write myself “ Senex ” and feel 
inclined to prose, to do so in manuscript which may 
be readily dropped and with less discourtesy than an 
elderly babbler in his own person. 

i 


CHAPTER I. 


Woodhurst, our early home, was a large plantation 
in South Carolina, nearly a day’s journey by coach 
from what we always called the metropolis. On such 
a Sunday in spring-time, as I can remember, a little 
procession would be standing in front of the wide piazza 
of the tall red brick dwelling-house, in readiness to 
start for the parish church. There was the chariot, in 
which sat our cousin Betty, otherwise Miss Sherwood, 
mistress of the household since my mother’s death; 
her pleasant round face, and hair still brown, looking 
out from the encircling glory of a new coal-scuttle 
bonnet with nodding plumes. Beside her was our little 
sister, Eleanor, and her nurse Maum Chloe in a stupen- 
dous handkerchief turban stiffened inside with brown 
paper, as we well knew who had watched the process. 
Then came two marsh-tacky ponies, ridden each by a 
small boy whose sturdy legs stood out straight from 
the sheep-skin. The younger, myself, was specially 
charged to mind Caesar, the mounted servant in attend- 
ance, an injunction resented deeply, but silently, as 
it was my father’s. On the broad steps stood the latter, 
his right fore-finger closed on his place of reading in 
a small black book, to be resumed on our departure. 

“ Now, Jim,” to the driver, “ take good care of Miss 
Betty The mare seems a little lively this fresh morn- 
ing. Caesar, you keep your eye on the boys. Did 
you tell the people at the quarters that those of them 

2 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


3 


who wished could attend service? Yes? That was 
right. Good-by, little Nell.” And the cavalcade 
moved swiftly down the shady live-oak avenue, half a 
mile in length, which led to the front gate. A Sunday 
stillness brooded over the place. Even the live-stock 
seemed taking a weekly rest from lowing, cackling, or 
grunting. A peacock wheeled his gorgeous train 
awkwardly out of our way, doves fluttered and cooed 
drowsily about the pigeon-house, and high overhead, 
against the blue sky, swept and circled in graceful 
flight a solitary turkey-buzzard. Where smoke curled 
slowly from the negro quarters, could be seen the 
hands enjoying in their cabin-doors the hebdomadal 
pipe of ease, and the women busied, in primitive style, 
with their offspring’s toilet. 

Two of these pickaninnies ran a pattering barefooted 
race before the chariot and held the gate open for our 
egress. Brothers, evidently, and as indistinguishable 
to a stranger as two black peas; but I knew very well 
it was my Castor, who showed his white teeth in a 
meaning grin, as he ducked and muttered something, 
and a playful blow of Miles’ willow switch was aimed 
at his own little henchman, Pollux. 

“Boys! boys!” cried Cousin Betty from the chariot, 
“we will be late.” And Caesar hurried us on. 

“What’d Castor tell you, Anthony?” inquired my 
brother. “Blue-jay’s nest in the tallest poplar this 
side the creek. We needn’t hurry coming back from 
church, coming back , you know, Caesar,” persuasively, 
“and supposing we were a good ways behind Cousin 
Betty, we might get that nest.” 

“No, sah!” decidedly. “No, Mas’ Miles, not while 
yo’s wid dis nigger. Yo’ pa done tole me fer keep my 


4 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


eye on yo’, an’ I gwine do it! An’ ’tain’t gwine be 
een de top o’ no poplar tree, bud-nestin’ on Sunday , 
yeddyV ' with slow emphasis. 

Well, the jay’s nest would keep; and in the mean 
time there were two miles of road to be traversed 
through the pine forest, gay here and there with snowy 
dogwood-blooms, or trailing yellow jessamine, or 
Cherokee roses. Gray Spanish moss waved everywhere 
in the spring breeze. Wild violets and elder-flowers 
smiled at us in vain, and we wondered to hear Cousin 
Betty protest that she must have a posy on her way 
back; but every sassafras bush, or chinquapin, or 
gnarled grapevine was noted for future reference, each 
in its season. We thought we saw a black snake glide 
into a dark thicket of cypress and myrtle; we were 
sure we spied a squirrel run up the trunk of a big 
magnolia. 

While our ponies went splashing through a shallow 
part of the creek in the wake of a sparkling shower 
scattered by the chariot-wheels, we caught sight of the 
blue-jay's nest, and farther on of a mocking-bird’s, 
and again a wax-bird’s. Over all was the delicious 
aromatic atmosphere of the woodland. The bliss of 
childhood is unconscious, if not ungrateful; but to an 
old man treading for many years since the brilliant 
streets of a distant crowded city, a fancied breath of 
that piney breeze has sometimes brought a fierce and 
sudden pang of homesickness 

Our narrower path crossing soon after the great 
highway, we began, that is to say, Cousin Betty began 
to exchange salutations, formal but very friendly, with 
the occupants of the various chaises and gigs and with 
numerous riders; and, presently, we reached the little 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


5 


brick church standing in the midst of a clearing among 
the tall pines. Todd’s Creek Church, it was called, 
from a Scotchman who had once lived there, traded with 
the Indians, and died, leaving only his name to be remem- 
bered. It had a small wooden belfry, much in need of 
paint ; and, in its rear, a straggling grave-vard stretched 
back into the forest. In front were grouped people from 
miles around, their vehicles and saddle-horses tied to 
trees in every direction. By the time our own ponies 
were fastened up, with Caesar in charge, the bell-ringing 
cut short various interesting discussions on politics and 
crops, and all flocked sedately in. Once inside our 
high pew, with benches running around its four sides, 
there was nothing to interest a small boy. The lion 
and the unicorn fighting for the crown on the British 
coat of arms over the chancel were old acquaintances. 
Also the faded mural tablet commemorating our great- 
grandfather: “John Wharton Ashley, Landgrave of 
Carolina under the Lords - Proprietors, etc.” A 
“Mudgrave,” Dick Northcote had called him once, 
saying that his own grandparent, being a “Cassock,” 
was much finer ; for which Miles had given him a black 
eye. Also, we had spelled out, until we knew by 
heart, other inscriptions stating that “ George Heart- 
suck, returning from London, on the well-known Brig 
the Charming Nancy , Giddings, Master — had been 
Captured by Pirates and Destroyed, with All on 
Board;” and that “Andrew Kettleband being Set upon 
by Foot-Pads in the Streets of Charleston on July 8th, 
1783, was foully Murdered. A Button picked up and 
identified as belonging to one of these villains was 
under Providence, the Means of bringing the Entire 
Gang to Justice.” 


6 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


The monotony of prayers was broken for a moment 
by the apparition of a charming child's head, which 
peeped and smiled at Nell over a neighboring pew, 
and then disappeared abruptly as though its owner 
were hastily pulled down. The minister’s mounting 
into the old hour-glass pulpit was the signal for drow- 
siness, to which I was yielding, when a heavy foot- 
step sounded in the aisle, and a pair of remarkably 
keen eyes under shaggybrows, glancing past our cousin 
and Miles, seemed to rest on me. Then their owner 
subsided somewhere, but not until I had noticed the 
wide crooked scar, disfiguring the left side of his face, 
and that he wore his iron-gray hair long and tied back 
with a black ribbon. 

“ ’Tis LismahagoT’ whispered I to Miles, having a 
surreptitious knowledge of that hero. 

“ What ?” said Miles, who never looked into a book in- 
deed, surreptitiously or otherwise, if he could help it. 
There was another interruption later in the sermon, for 
the minister had just said: “On this point, my breth- 
ren, it is evident that David thought ” when down 

came a sudden shower of rain, and every man in the 
church hurried out at once to see to his saddle or gig- 
cushions, as the case might be. Dr. Lovegreen had 
probably forgotten about David before they came back, 
for he went on to another point of his discourse, and I 
went to sleep. 

They were singing the closing hymn when I waked 
to find Maum Chloe pulling up our starched ruffles, and 
handing us our stiff little beavers with bands and 
buckles. A new voice, loud and harsh, which now 
filled the church with its discordance, could have been 
no other than the stranger’s. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


7 


Outside again, acquaintances commenced or resumed 
their chat. The pretty child who had spoken to Nell 
inside, and who was named Dorothy Winter, came up 
to compare notes, with many a glance of her bright 
eyes and coquettish wave of her curls. But neither 
Miles nor I thought much of girls at that time; and 
were more interested in Dick Northcote’s new boots. 

“ I lost one of the tassels in the chaise,” said he 
with affected indifference. 

“Did you ride with your father and mother?” I 
inquired; “ we came on horseback.” 

Miles’ grin at this made Master Northcote’s black 
brows go up scornfully. 

“In low shoes! I thought gentlemen always rode in 
I boots!” 

To avoid the painful admission that we had none, 
it was necessary to hear Cousin Betty calling us. 
She and two other ladies were discussing a servant’s 
illness. 

“I have a sovereign remedy for such disorders,” 
declared Cousin Betty. “ I use nothing else with our 
people — Flugger’s Pills and Boluses and for a tonic 
afterward, Flugger’s Bitters. Our Peter came from 
Edisto with the myrtle fever two months ago, and they 
cured him completely. You get them down in Charles- 
ton from Sergeant Flugger’s widow, over the haber- 
dasher’s, on the left side of Blackbird Alley. If you 
will let me send you some ” 

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Winter dubiously, “we 

have had great satisfaction with Cockle’s Pills ” 

and here the tall stranger walked up and addressed 
Cousin Betty, taking off his hat and remaining bare- 
headed while he stood. 


8 


IN OLD ST, STEPHEN’S. 


“ Have I not the honor of speaking to Miss Sher- 
wood ? Yes? I met you last when you were a very 
little girl. I was attracted to your family group by 
one who looks like a young friend of those days, 
Anthony Ashley.” 

“ It is his son, sir — Anthony Cooper Ashley.” 

“ Madam, the likeness is extraordinary. But I have 
not named myself — Colonel Homer Virgil Milton” — 
bowing — “at your service, and well known to your 
parents.” 

“ They often spoke of you, sir, and I am glad to 
meet you,” said Cousin Betty, with a fine courtesy in 
which the skirts of her pelisse inflated themselves, 
balloon-wise, around her plump figure. “ There is an 
extra seat in the chariot. Will you not drive over to 
Woodhurst, dine with us, and see Mr. Ashley?” 

“ ’Tis an opportunity I cannot afford to lose, madam, 
and as my boy is with me — here, Primus,” to a 
negro nearly as old as himself, and as quaint-looking, 
“take the mule home, I will not need him, and,” a 
semitone lower, “ do not keep my dinner, I dine out 
to-day. Now then, this is, I suppose, another son of 
Mr. Ashley’s. Young gentlemen, I am happy to make 
your acquaintance,” and upon our taking off our little 
beavers, as we were taught to do, he waved his anti- 
quated hat with a curious cock to it in the air, and lay- 
ing it on his breast, bowed low once more. Where- 
upon my heart clove to him, and I was vexed that 
Miles should agree with Dick Northcote, who called 
him “ an old quiz ” and “ a figure of fun. ” The chariot 
rattled on again, Nell and Maum Chloe being now 
accommodated with a bench drawn from under the 
seat. We rode after, in the order of our coming, and 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


9 


I do not recall any incident in the homeward way ex- 
cept the starting of a rabbit. Caesar was wildly 
excited in a moment, and rose up in his stirrups. 

“Fo’God!” he declared in a hoarse whisper, his 
eyes bulging out, as the rabbit skilrried through the 
i undergrowth, “ ef ’twasn’ fer Miss Betty, I’d git dat 
; rabbit!” 

“On Sunday , Caesar!” I cried maliciously, and he 
had no explanation ready. 

My father was sitting with his book on the oaken 
bench running around the piazza when we reached the 
house, and as he came forward to meet us the faintest 
expression of surprise on seeing the unexpected visitor 
appeared. The latter was ceremoniously assisting 
Cousin Betty to descend, and his appearance was cer- 
tainly calculated to cause surprise at first sight. Six 
feet high; his hat and coat of a long-past fashion; his 
hair tied in form of a queue, contrasting with his face 
brick-red and with that remarkable scar; and his mus- 
cular legs, clad in knee-breeches and silk stockings, dis- 
playing no special beauty of form, but quite the con- 
trary. The astonishment changed into recognition as 
my father neared him. 

“Surely I remember Colonel Milton,” he exclaimed, 
holding out his hand. 

“Your remembrance of me is wonderful, sir,” said 
the colonel, “ considering your tender age when you 
last saw me.” 

“You made an impression on my youthful mind,” 
said my father, smiling. “And now, I hope your 
thirst for warlike glory is at last appeased — and you 
mean to stay with us.” 

> “I have come back, sir, like an old war-horse, to lie 


IO 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


down and die in my native pastures. I find the kitch- 
en on my small place — all those cursed red-coats left 
— comfortable enough. You know, of course, they 
burned all they could, and that was saved by chance. It 
has two rooms quite large for a soldier accustomed to 
tents. Old Primus has been faithful — I found him 
there — all the years I have been off fighting in foreign 
lands. I’ll do very well there with my pipe and him. 
You know Primus?” 

“ Everybody knows Primus, ” replied my father, lead- 
ing the way to the piazza bench. We heard no more 
just then, being taken upstairs, to have our Sunday 
suits laid by for the week to come. 

“And Eleanor must have some ‘Milk of Cucumbers’ 
on her face, Chloe,”said Cousin Betty. “The sun has 
freckled her to-day.” Then Eleanor wailed on Miles 
declaring that juice of cucumbers must surely turn her 
little nose grass-green, and being shaken by Chloe for 
“’teasin’ de chile.” We were just downstairs when 
the dinner-bell rang, at one o’clock precisely, and we 
followed our elders into the dining-room. Great 
logs were blazing on the big brass “ dogs,” though the 
windows were open. Everything was shining; the 
polished oak floor; the mahogany sideboard with its 
load of cut-glass and solid silver and knobs of brass 
and glass; the table appointments, and pleasant 
glimpses of out-door greenery through the bowed shut- 
ters which tempered the clear spring sunlight. My 
father had been to the attic for his choicest Madeira 
with which to do honor to his guest. 

“ This, now,” said the latter, after a few moments of 
silent enjoyment, “ is a famous terrapin” — he said 
“tarrapin” — “stew. I have tasted nothing like it 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


I I 

since I dined in Carolina before. It is food for the 
gods, madam.” 

“I am glad you like it, sir. Did you enjoy the ser- 
mon, to-day, colonel — Colonel Virgil ?” 

“Milton, madam, but it is no matter. Yes, cer- 
tainly, though I regret that we shall never know what 
! David thought of that point.” 

Cousin Betty sighed decorously, and my father bit 
his lip: “You have not always contrived to hear a 
sermon on Sundays, colonel ?” 

“ No, sir, unfortunately. After my last campaign 
with our General Washington” — here he stood up cere- 
moniously, then sat down again — “ I served in the Low 
Countries, and in Egypt, in regiments without a chap- 
lain, sometimes; sometimes with one so graceless and 
reprobate that I have had occasion to say to him: ‘Sir, 
I am a profane man, myself; but I never swear in the 
! presence of ladies, I’ll be damned if I do!’ ” 

“ I wish I could have known the great Washington!” 
cried Cousin Betty precipitately. “ Castor, be careful 
! with that fly-brush!” for Castor, standing behind the 
colonel’s chair, was, in his absorbing interest in the 
latter’s conversation, carelessly dusting him with a 
brush formed from the peacock’s last year’s tail. 

“I was taken to see him once,” said my father, 
“when he visited Charleston. He had a fine face, but 
a little cold — or so it seemed to a child. He stroked 
my hair while some of the gentlemen told him that 
Cornwallis was occupying the lower rooms of our 
house when I was born in the upper story. But he 
was more inclined to talk with interest of a visit the 
ladies of Charleston had paid him in great numbers 
and brilliancy the day before. He said ’twas an 


12 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


unprecedented honor for him to receive from the Fairly 
Fair, and he should never forget their distinguished 
condescension and gracious urbanity. ” 

“ And he was right, sir! by — ahem! he was right! 
He was a soldier and a gallant man. Let us drink his 
health!” and he arose again to do so. “Madam, this 
pilau is excellent.” Miles kicked me under the table; 
the colonel certainly approved of the Madeira. “ I 
have tasted of the cookery of many countries, both in 
towns and camps; and though compelled to acknowl- 
edge the French the finest cooks when well equipped, 
the darkey can accomplish more with less of a baterie 
de cuisine than any other. Of course, madam, my 
remark does not apply to your very complete establish- 
ment; but there is my Primus — I have tried him with 
only one saucepan and a gridiron, and he is hard to 
beat, hard to beat! Thank you, I will finish with a 
little Jamaica and just a pinch of the Maccabaw” — 
taking it from my father’s snuff-box, lying open on the 
table. In this there was a spring, which being now 
touched it proceeded to play “The Star-Spangled 
Banner,” faintly but clearly, and the colonel with 
much gravity and his head on one side beat time in 
the wrong places. 

It was a huge and malodorous pipe which he smoked 
in the shade of the piazza vines after dinner in com- 
pany with my father, who tolerated but did not use 
tobacco in this form. As for Miles and me, we were 
set by Cousin Betty at a window in the parlor to our 
usual Sunday afternoon reading, on which she would 
sometimes examine us. ’Twas “Jenks’ Devotions, 
Prayers and Offices of Devotion for Families, by Benja- 
min Jenks, late Rector of Harley in Shropshire, and 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


13 


Chaplain to the late Earl of Bradford.” I can only 
1 hope that the feeling with which we regarded the late 
1 Benjamin Jenks did him no harm, wherever he was. 
On this occasion, we dropped him at once upon 
Cousin Betty’s disappearance, and gave ourselves, 
unreservedly, to the talk outside. This was a colonel, 
indeed! a hero, who, not content with the battles of 
l! the Revolution, had spent his days since in fighting 
i! all over the world. George Heartsuck was nothing to 
1 him — anybody could be “ destroyed by pirates” who 
[ got in their way. And Andrew Kettleband tried to 
| run, no doubt, from the foot-pads who slew him. 

“ This is a fine place of yours, Mr. Ashley,” said the 

I colonel, “ a d — d fine place, by ” 

“ I fancy the children are somewhere about, colonel,” 
my father answered pleasantly. “ Miles and Anthony, 
you may take your book to the end of the piazza. 
You use, I am sure, the same regard for them as you 
| do for women. Virgi?iibus puerisque , you know.” 

( “Certainly; but when you speak Latin to me, Mr. 
Ashley, I beg you will translate. My dear old father, 
Peter Milton, gave me my name intending me for a 
classic scholar and a planter. And I have forgotten 
every word of Greek and Latin he flogged into me. As 
j for planting, I have but an acre or two left around the 
ruins made by those cursed Tories and Hessians. 
Infernal hounds!” 

“ Miles and Anthony,” said my father gently, for 
we had slipped gradually nearer along the benches, “ I 
will excuse you. Go to the other side of the piazza, 
and stay there.” 

“I am now sixty-five, sir,” I next heard the guest 
say — Miles and I had settled that he was a hundred 


14 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


— “ I like to think of spending the few years left me 
beside my native Santee, and near, if not to old friends 
who are mostly dead, to their children. You are like 
your father, sir, as your younger boy is to you, and 
both of you dark like the picture of the Landgrave I 
saw over the dining-room mantel. The other must be 
like his mother, who was a fair beauty, I am told. I 
could find it in me to envy you your family circle — 
but what has a scarred old rover like me to do with 
such matters ? There was a widow in Brussels, though, 

once — if a soldier had time to court ” 

“Anthony,” said my father, in a quiet, low voice, 
which went through me nevertheless — ’twas only I who 
had dared to draw near again — “you may go to bed.” , 
And I went, without a word, my head held stiffly up- 
right to keep from crying, a sound of the colonel’s vain 
pleading going with me. Oh, what a glorious after- 
noon to be wasted in one’s room! It was but a little 
while, however, until my dear Miles, his handsome, 
boyish face glowing in the sunset light, ran in out of 
breath with a book. “Here,” he said, “I dare not 
stay a moment, or father will miss me, for the Win- 
ters and Northcotes are coming up the avenue. But I 
snatched a book for you off the parlor table, and now 1 
I must run down.” It was “ Jenks;” but that was but 
an unlucky consequence of his hurry. ’Twas his affec- 
tionate thought for me that cheered my lonely evening. 




CHAPTER II. 


The colonel soon settled down, for us, into an in- 
timate friend and a valued neighbor. In his renovated 
kitchen-rooms, christened “The Camp,” visitors were 
warmly received; the elders with good Virginia 
tobacco and Holland gin or English ale mulled, when 
desired, with the red-hot poker; the youngsters with 
a sweet potato baked in the ashes and a glass of milk, 
j Or, better still, we were invited to share his mid-day 
meal, a rabbit stew, or broiled cat-fish, caught and 
perfectly prepared by Primus. Soon every day that 
we did not visit him was likely to see the colonel 
strolling up and down our piazza, waiting for my father 
to come in from the lower plantation, and humming 
most unmusically: 

“ Ah! 9a ira, 9a ira, 9a ira! 

Malgre les mutins tout reussira!” 

Or standing before the mantel in the dining-room, 

, looking up at the fine picture of John Wharton Ashley, 
j in velvet and lace and his hand on the hilt of his 
sword. ’Twas on this latter occasion that I heard my 
father say: 

“You seem, colonel, to have enlisted my boys — all 
; the boys in the neigborhood, indeed — under your com- 
mand. It is a gratifying circumstance to me that they 
can associate profitably with a gentleman of your wide 
experience and observation.” The colonel made a 

*5 


16 IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 

low bow and my father did the same. “ Provided,” he 
went on slowly, “ that you exercise the same remarkable 
self-restraint with them, in certain matters, that you 
do with ladies.” 

“Sir,” said the colonel, slightly confused, “it is a 
bad habit, and I may have already offended once or 
twice in that way. But for the future, for the pleas- 
ure of the little fellows' company, I am willing to 
promise that when I need such relief to my feelings 
with them, I will take it in French. I can swear,” 
he added, with modest pride, “ in nearly all the modern 
tongues, if only you do not ask me to do it in Greek or 
Latin.” 

“I will not require that,” my father assured him, 
smiling. And the colonel kept his word. The stories 
— embellished by the waving of a real and fearsome 
sword — of Princeton and the Cowpens, Alten Kirchen, 
Ciudad Rodrigo, and Waterloo, to which we listened, 
fascinated, were now interjected with many a “ mor- 
bleu!” “ ventre-bleu!” or “ mille-tonnerres!” which 
made our blood run cold with a sense of mystery. I 
am constrained to add that my eager acceptance of his 
offer to teach me French, and faithful study of that 
language, were due primarily to a desire to know what 
was meant by “ Ventre-Saint-Gris!” 

It was not long before Dick Northcote ceased call- 
ing our hero “an old quiz” and began to beg us to 
take him to “ The Camp,” which we did, though often 
at feud with him, by reason of his disagreeable satiric 
remarks. Miles, however, liked to be with him, he 
was so active and enterprising in out-door games; and 
his cleverness and unrestricted run of his father’s 
library made me find him a not unattractive companion. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


17 


Besides, he was our nearest neighbor; the Northcotes' 
Oaklands being to the right of our place, the Winters' 
Fairview a mile farther on the left. 

Our education proper was conducted at a little gram- 
mar school, near Horse-Shoe Creek, called the Acad- 
emy. Under the very old teacher, who died about this 

I time, and his assistant, the lad Billings — known as 
Tom out of school — our path had been the primrose 
one of dalliance, with abundant leisure for gunning, 
fishing, swimming, bird-nesting, and the colonel. Then 
came a short reign of terror for the boys of St. 
Stephen's parish, with a New England scholar, called 
Sterne, whose name was mild, indeed, compared to his 
discipline. After a spirited encounter — making me 
think of Bonaparte and the Duke of Wellington — 
between him and the colonel, on the subject of a 
I flogging he wished to administer to me, the colonel 
marched me home and explained to my father: 

“ Mille diables! sir, the man was drunk, and is often 
so, I am told." 

“It must be looked into," said my father gravely. 
“ He brought the boys on wonderfully in their classics. 
But if he resorts too often ad amphoram, Anthony, you 
must remember parva decent parvam. Run away, 
now." I went with round eyes of wonder. Inquiry 
developed the fact — from Tom Billings — that amaz- 
ing quantities of Falernian — otherwise Holland gin 
— had been consumed in the teacher’s little dwelling, 
and that he was never quite sober, save by accident. 
He disappeared from our midst and was seen no 
more. 

The only memorable events of this summer spent, as 
usual, in the cooler air of High Rock, were the death 

i 


i8 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


of our old coachman and the completion of Eleanor’s 
and Dorothy’s cross-stitch samplers, which received 
great praise and were sent to Charleston to be framed. 
The first frosty days found us again at Woodhurst, 
roaming the place with Castor and Pollux and the dogs 
at our heels. Primus resumed his embassies from “ The 
Camp ” with freshly captured fish or game, the accept- 
ance of which contributed to his veteran master’s 
self-respect among wealthier neighbors. We caught 
sight of him one afternoon, as we crossed the stable- 
lot, coming from the forge. 

“Hi! Primus! Primus!” setting up a simultaneous 
run and shout, which were unheeded, Primus being 
engaged in jerking his little donkey out of the way of 
Cousin Betty, driving in at the gate, and urging the 
unoffending animal: “You Squash! you raskil! git 
outen de way!” 

“Never mind, Primus,” said Cousin Betty kindly. 

“Pass on, my missus, pass on,” quoth Primus with 
a flourish of his squirrel-skin cap and an exaggerated 
copy of the colonel’s bow. “ Squash and me, we allays 
waits on de ladies.” 

“ Come up to the smoke-house, Primus. I have a 
fine Virginia ham I want the colonel to taste, and some 
of my blackberry brandy when he is indisposed.” 

“ He well dispose to any , missus,” Primus explained 
earnestly, “but he ginnally takes rum. He sen’ he 
complimuns now, an’ dis fish, an’ say, as ’ tis gwine 
be a moonlight night, effer yo’ would let de young 
gemmen an’ some o’ de boys often de place go on a 
possum hunt, he’d tek care of ’em. I got a fus-class 
coon-dog, missus,” persuasively. 

“Go out at night! oh, I think not, Primus,” said 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 19 

Cousin Betty doubtfully, getting down from the 
chaise. 

“Sousin’ de libbutty, missus,” said Primus craftily, 

' “dat’s a moughty putty hat o’ yourn, an’ moughty 
becomin’. It teks my eye, fer sure!” 

“Yes,” said Cousin Betty, quite pleased. “I do 
j think, Eleanor, that Madam Durang’s bonnets are 
j vastly becoming, and of a most genteel fashion. This 
one she calls ‘Mrs. Madison’s Taste, ’ after Dorothy’s 
godmother, Dolly Madison. I shall get your winter 
| hat from her when we go to town; but” — checking her- 
j self — “what are such things but vanities? Here, 
Lucinda,” to her maid, “take my bonnet and pelisse 
and bring me my cottage hat and curricle cloak. 
After I get Uncle Primus the ham, I must go down 
: to the quarters and see after poor old Venus’ rheuma- 
tism. Boys, you may tell your father that I think 
Primus would take good care of you, and Caesar could 
go, too.” 

“And Pollux, Cousin Betty?” 

“And Castor, cousin?” 

“And the boys from the quarters?” 

I “Ask your father,” who agreed to our going under 
j certain stipulations. And oh! how long it seemed 
| before the moon rose and the hour of starting came. 

! Then the impatience while extra coats and capes and 
caps were fastened on us — for the nights were crisp and 
j frosty now — by our cousin and Mammy and Lucinda. 

! There was a throng of negroes and dogs waiting for us on 
the road, and the colonel and Primus and the “ fus-class” 
coon-dog joined us by a cross-cut from “The Camp;” 
the veteran entered into everything with the liveliness 
and zest of twenty years. Then into the thick of the 

) 


20 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


forest, autumn leaves crackling under our feet, the 
resinous smell of pines strong in the air, torches 
smoking and fitfully illumining in patches where the 
full moon failed to penetrate a leafy thicket. Up to 
the knees, sometimes in marsh-mud; pricked, unheed- 
ing, by sharp leaves of Spanish bayonet or scrub 
palmetto; struggling manfully through bush and briar, 
and — ha! what was that? — straining the ear breath- 
lessly to hear — and then a wild, joyous chorus of bark- 
ing and shouting — and ’possum is treed! The strokes 
of an axe on the clear cold air, and down comes a tall 
tree crashing, and the dogs, all in a snarling, worrying 
heap, are on their prey. Oh! the delight of the first 
part of that night! and oh! the fatigue of the latter 
part ! I remember sitting down at the foot of a persim- 
mon-tree, with a dim idea of mounting guard over the 
fruit, so delicious now, until the twins were at liberty 
to climb it; and then — I remember no more until I 
heard the colonel saying to Caesar at our avenue 
gate: “ Poor little fellow! he was tired, pardieu! 
Carry him to the house, Caesar.” They had taken 
turns in carrying me since I fell asleep. 

It was a day or two after the coon-hunt, when com- 
ing in from seeking chinquapins, Castor and Pollux 
as usual following, Caesar called to the latter: 

“You, Castor an’ Pollux, massa want yo’ in de 
liberry !” 

This was an unusual summons, the house-servants, 
women and children, being mostly governed by Cousin 
Betty. We ventured to follow and stood in the door- 
way, scenting trouble for our boys. My father, looking 
very stern, did not seem to see us, but took up a cane 
from his writing-table. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


21 


“Castor and Pollux, as I was riding past Horse- 
Shoe Creek this afternoon, I heard your voices uttering 
words so coarse and profane that I was shocked. I do 
not permit such language on my place, and I am sur- 
prised your y^pung masters would suffer it in their pres- 
ence. I am : going to give you both a whipping. ” 

“Oh, no! massa, please, massa! I ain’t said a wud 
dat I ’member!” from both twins, with an appealing 
look at us, an ashy tinge stealing over their little 
black faces. 

“Father,” said Miles, stepping forward at once, his 
head erect, though a deep flush of shame stained his 
cheek, “ you know — of course, you know, that ’twas I 
| spoke so.” 

“You, Miles! It seemed your voice, but I chose to 
think that my ears deceived me rather than that ’twas 
j possible my son could use such language. Castor and 
; Pollux, you may leave the room and shut the door, 
j Take off your jacket, Miles.” He took it off without 
a word, his blue eyes wide and fair hair waving off 
his forehead. My dear Miles was so handsome that 
in boyhood and afterward I have often seen strangers 
turn to look at him on the street. My heart beat very 
fast. We had often been caned at school ; for it was 
an age of great severity to children, both at home 
; and abroad, but my father had never yet lifted his 
; hand to punish either of us. I could not bear it, and 
stepped between them. 

“Father,” I said, looking up in his face, “if one of 
us is punished it should be I. Miles would never have 
known the words if I had not read them to him out 
of a book yesterday.” 

“What book was that?” 


22 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


I mentioned the book, the name of which I do not 
give here, for reasons which seem to me good. 

“ I thought I had told you not to take any of those 
old books from the library without asking me first.” 

“ It was not from the library, but from Cousin Betty’s 
books, which she lets me have.” 

“Betty has probably forgotten, if she ever read,” 
my father muttered, half to himself, “most of the fic- 
tion in vogue in her youth and mine. Society has 
grown more decorous since, if not really better. 
Miles, put on your jacket. Anthony, give me your 
word to read no book but your school-books without 
first showing it to me.” 

“I give you my word, sir,” said I, putting a rather 
grimy hand into the one he extended. He still held 
it as he pointed to where our fair young mother’s pic- 
ture hung over his table. He bade us look up at the 
portrait, so well painted that the eyes, large and blue 
like Miles’, seemed smiling into ours from a gentle, 
gracious face with blond hair raised high and falling in 
ringlets on the white neck. 

“If your mother were alive, my sons,” he said, in 
the soft tone he always used to speak of her, “ would 
you like to utter such words in her presence?” We 
hung our heads. “Trust me, though you may never 
find it the belief or practice of the world, that what is 
not fit for a lady is unfit for a gentleman. Now you 
may go.” He detained me a moment after Miles. 
“Anthony, I would not have excused Miles but that 
I fully believed you. Your different character and 
taste for study give you influence with your elder 
brother, and you must be careful to make it a good 
one. Whatever you may hear, always believe that. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


23 


; purity and nobility of language and conduct well 
become a brave man and a gentleman And oh, my 
« little Anthony!” his sallow, dark browed face softened 
with the tenderest look, “ I want you to be a gen- 
tleman.” 

I leaned my face on his hands and sobbed out many 
promises, which I have kept more or less faithfully as 
strength was given me. And at last the looked-for 
smile appeared, and he dismissed me, calling after : “I 
Will take care that you have interesting books enough.” 

That night, for the first time in my young life, I sent 
off the drowsy Castor, who generally nodded, turkey- 
wing in hand, before the roaring logs in our bedroom 
fire-place until I was asleep, and pondered how I 
might become what my father wished. The light had 
risen and fallen many times, dancing about the pol- 
ished floor and tall four-poster with its dimity curtains 
and valance, and Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John 
carved on the head-board, before I stood, all in white, 
on the mahogany steps leading up into bed. 

“ Is it a ghost?” asked Miles, half-waking. 

“I was just thinking, Miles,” seriously. 

‘‘This is the time to sleep and not to think,” said 
he, turning his curly head over on the great frilled 
pillow smelling of lavender and such weeds, and was 
snoring again in a moment. 


CHAPTER III. 


From annoying comments of visitors that we were 
getting to be “monstrous tall and proper lads,’ 1 which 
seemed to surprise them, as though it were an unusual 
thing for boys to grow, it must have been some length 
of time after this, when we were all seated together, 
one tempestuous evening, with the noise of the wind 
and rain without increasing the sense of snugness 
within. Together, I say, but Miles and I were, really, 
before the dining-room fire, giving a lesson in reading 
and writing to Castor and Pollux, seated on their 
heels beside us, each with a box of “fat” wood splin- 
ters at hand, with which to keep up the strong fire- 
light. This was a task of teaching that, having begun t 
with great enthusiasm, we might have tired of but ! 
that my father insisted on perseverance, both for our 
sakes and in justice to the twins. Through the wide 
door opening into the library we could see the 
party within in bright relief from our firelit room, on 
account of the many twinkling candles set in brass 
and silver and among sparkling glass prisms. The 
colonel, surprised by the storm and persuaded to 
remain over night, was deep in a game of backgam- 
mon with Cousin Betty; little Eleanor at my father’s 
knee with a bit of tapestry-work, and the latter read- 
ing. The great hall-door opening let in a gust of cold 
and moisture with Caesar, who stood on the rug, rain- 

24 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


25 


drops glistening on his lion-skin great-coat and cap. 
He gave my father, who went out to him, a package. 

“ ’Tis de mail, sah. One o’ de boys een de quarters 
heer de horn an’ run out to de coach; an’ knowin’ yo’ 
was expectin’ it, I brung it up.” 

“ ‘Expecting’ — yes, for just ten days,” said my father. 
“ ’Tis but a small matter, after all ; a package for you, 
Betty, and two or three letters for me. Our corre- 
spondents seem to have reached our own conclusion, 
that ’tis safer and swifter to wait and send letters by 
friends travelling.” 

“We were glad to have a paper from Charleston 
once a month, in my time,” said the colonel placidly, 
holding a piece suspended. “ It was owned by the 
widow of the former editor, and she used to beg people 
through its columns to send her their subscriptions 
sometimes, as she really could not find time to go 
around to each in person. A shame by — ahem! by 
George! I remember seeing one number that got 
through the lines when Balfour held the city. It was 
faintly printed on wrapping paper, dark blue; but I 
was only twenty years old then and could make it out. 
Is it still called the Charleston Gazette , and Whig in 
politics of course?” 

“I leave you to make out its politics,” my father 
smiled. “ Its name is now the Charleston Gazette , but it 
might be the Vicar of Bray. Here is the prospectus: 
‘Somewhat of a political creed will naturally be ex- 
pected from us. We, then, do not hesitate to avow that 
we revere and shall ever defend those sound, safe, 
and moral principles of government which best pre- 
serve the freedom and promote the happiness of all men 
in society.’ Then they are afraid that this is too 


2 6 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


strong; so it ends: ‘Decisive as we thus are, we shall 
not, we trust, incur the imputation of dogmatism.’ 
‘Decisive as we thus are ’ is particularly good.” 

“And what is the news?” 

“ Editorial about the queen’s trial.” 

“ Sacre bleu!” cried the colonel, “but we are lucky, 
here in America, to have escaped the rule of that Han- 
overian animal of a king,” and he took some prodigious 
pinches of Maccabaw, followed by the waving of a 
huge bandanna. 

My father assented fully. His opinion of George 
the Fourth was quite as low as the colonel’s, but he 
took his snuff more quietly. He went on reading from i 
the paper. “ Description of a youth of fifteen missing I 
from home. ‘By inserting the above, the editor will ] 
receive grateful thanks of agonized family.’ The 
editor would probably prefer something more substan- 
tial. ‘A house to rent on Savage’s Green, with view 
of River and James Island. Desirable residence for 
genteel family, and a never-failing cistern of water on 
the premises.’ ‘William Ross, Jun., having been 
elected and commissioned Col. 8th Regiment Cavalry, 
is to be obeyed and respected accordingly, by order of 
the brigadier-general !’ ‘Miss McCrea is reported to 
have been tomahawked and scalped by Indians last 
month in Ohio. This should elicit something neat 
from our local poets!’ How pleasantly he alludes to 
the trifling incident! Oh, Fons Bandusiae! Is it 
you who will supply inspiration for that theme? ‘The 
marirage of Colonel Darius Hobson, U. S. A., to Miss 
Chloe P. Mackawis, or the Jumping Rabbit, a belle of 
the Chickasaw tribe, which we noticed in a recent issue, 
was, we are now informed, a hoax. Could we discover 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


27 


the originator of this wretched joke, and also of the 
remark that delay in transmission of our holiday num- 
ber was probably a Christmas gainbol, they should be 
prosecuted!* Ah! colonel, here is, indeed, great news 
on the first page, which I must have missed! Lafay- 
ette’s visit to the city is fixed for next week. We 
will really see at last the hero of two continents. 
‘Arrangements for reception of nations’ guest.* ” He 
! ran them over hastily. “ Ancient Artillery, Cincin- 
, nati, South Carolina Society — I belong to them all. 
What do you say, Betty? Shall we take the coach 
and travel to town to honor the marquis and please 
ourselves?’* Castor and Pollux were instantly aban- 
doned to their fate ; so was the backgammon board. 

“I don’t know,” said Cousin Betty, all in a flutter. 
“I have nothing to wear, or Nell either, to make a 
i genteel appearance.” 

I “Madam!” cried the colonel, walking about in high 
excitement, “ my Continental uniform is, no doubt, in 
good preservation” — Miles nudged me — “but I would 
see the illustrious marquis once more if I had to go 
in rags, by ” Here he swallowed so large an ex- 

pletive that it nearly choked him. 

“ We are without a proper coachman,” pursued my 
1 father, “since the loss of poor Jim, but Caesar can drive 
us down, and I may find one there. Here is a promis- 
ing advertisement: ‘Wanted to sell Myself, but not for 
life; say one year: not as first-rate Coachman, but 
as one that can drive two horses well in a coach, 
provided he is allowed the following food for his 
horses, viz. : peck corn, peck oats per day for 

two horses and as much Timothy Hay as they can eat, 
with food for myself accordingly. Should this meet 


28 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


approbation of any one advertising, I shall expect to 
see it in Gazette , and will then make myself known 
to Massa!’ This was surely taken down verbatim 
from dictation. He must be an original.” 

“I should call him a lunatic,” cried Cousin Betty. 

“I will look into it, nevertheless,” said my father, 
making a note. “A coachman who thinks of his 
horses before himself is not to be found every 
day. ” 

The whole neighborhood was in a commotion on 
the morrow. The Copelands were all going to town, 
and the Overstreets and the Winters and the North- 
cotes for next week’s event. Dick Northcote, who 
admired no one but Napoleon, said “ ’twas not worth 
the trouble of going, but his mother would be dis- 
appointed.” 

“Unlike Tony Lumpkin,” dryly commented my 
father, who heard him, “you can’t abide to disap- 
point other people.” Dick looked at him doubtfully, 
but said nothing. The colonel’s impatience led him 
to mount his mule, to which he now gave the name of 
“ Hurrah,” in honor of the occasion, and off he went 
before any of us. 

Our coach was at tbe door on the appointed 
morning, its four horses as eager to start as we, 
Caesar holding the reins and one of the boys rid- 
ing postillion on the near leader. It seemed late 
to us, who had been up “racketing,” Mammy said, 
but we said packing, since midnight; though 
actually so early that the gang-driver’s horn could 
be heard summoning the hands to the field. Castor 
and Pollux were in the depths because they were not 
taken, and Maum Chloe cross for the same reason, 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


2 9 


Lucinda having been adjudged sufficient for attendance 
f on Cousin Betty and Nell. Boxes and bundles were 
piled all over the coach; a large one and handsome it 
would be thought even now, though cumbrously heavy 
with russet leather padding, panelled mirrors, and 
' Venetian blinds. All were in but our cousin, my father 
standing waiting for her with his hand on the coach- 
door. “Betty! Betty! Betty!" he cried, with rising 
( vexation. 

[ “Yes, yes. Now, Mammy, are you sure I have 
I everything down ?’’ reading from her list: “ Honey and 
I Windsor wash balls; lavender and orange- flower 
water; Poland starch; aniseed cordial; race ginger; 
Madras handkerchiefs; punch strainer; chocolate mill 
and chafing-dish to be mended, and new snuffers and 

tray for kitchen to be bought ” 

“Cousin," my father interrupted firmly, “you have 
had three days to make out your list; and now we 
will have to leave you." 

The coach-door slammed behind her, Caesar cracked 
his whip, and off we went in the early dawn along the 
narrow road skirting Todd’s Creek and Horse-Shoe 
Creek, and out into the great high-road, and along that 
to Charleston. ’Twas intended that the only break in 
our day’s journey should be for lunch taken at the Hen 
- and Chickens Tavern, formerly the Crown Prince, 
about half-way; but we were compelled to stop once 
, more, when the sun was setting, near a bend in the road, 
to repair some slight damage to the harness. My father 
walked on a few steps as Caesar and the boy busied 
themselves among the wheels, and suddenly, as though 
arisen from the earth, a man on horseback, with hat 

down over his eyes and face half-buried in his collar, 
3 


30 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


confronted him, a pistol in each hand, and com- 
manded him, with hideous oaths, to deliver up his 
valuables. 

Cousin Betty gave a scream, seconded by Eleanor, 
the two servants’ teeth chattered in helpless terror; 
my father was quite unarmed. One of the highway- 
man’s pistols pointed at him, the other covered the rest 
of the group. 

It appeared that we must lose all we had with us. 

“ If I am not to stir, how can I get you the valu- 
ables?” asked my father calmly. 

“ Empty your pockets!” The contents of the many- 
caped great-coat pockets did not please him. “No! 
no papers, d — n you! I don’t want them or bills, 
either. Where’s your purse? Open it. Gold? 
That’ll do. Don’t come near, or — throw it on the 
grass, near my horse. Now make your niggers and 
those boys bring out everything from the coach, and 
be quick about it, or I’ll give them a shot or two, any- 
how, G — d d — n them!” 

Cousin Betty looked on in speechless misery as all the 
carefully prepared packages were taken out and piled 
on the grass, and only uttered one piteous moan as 
she saw the box which held her much-prized topazes, 
in which she had meant to shine at the Assembly 
Room, deposited with the others While busying 
myself with the rest, I had been mentally seeking a 
helpful idea. The coach was now emptied of all but 
the mahogany case of pistols under the seat. It was 
a dainty-looking box of unusual shape, bought in 
France, and handsomely enamelled on top. I took it 
out, still under the robber's eye, and called to my 
father: “ The gentleman will not want this dressing- 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


31 

case of Cousin Betty’s. He can have no use for a 
lady’s tooth washes and toilet necessaries.” 

“Surely not,” said my father, addressing the man. 
“ I suppose she may keep that?” 

The ruffian hesitated. “ Come here !” he cried to me. 
“Open it and let me see, d — n you!” I advanced, 
and pretending to fumble with the lock, was nearer to 
my father than to him, when it opened with a snap, 
and the former, springing on it, had seized a pistol. 
Something went singing past my ear, the highwayman’s 
aim being now confused, and the next moment he 
dropped from his horse, shot by my father. 

“Now, Caesar and Bob,” sharply, “you may help. 
Bring the rope from under the box-seat. Tie his hands 
securely — so. Now, Bob, put him on his horse, and 
you mount behind. He must go as far as the Bull’s 
Head with us. Do you want a pistol ? No? Well, 
he cannot hurt you now.” 

So the valuables were restored to their places, and 
we went trundling along as before, only with our pos- 
tillion in the rear, mounting guard over a wounded 
highwayman. 

“Thank you, Anthony,” said my father, “for your 
quickness and courage in carrying out your thoughts. 
’Twas better than either of you boys trying to shoot; 
for you would most likely have missed.” Then he 
took a nap. Cousin Betty and Eleanor were saying 
their prayers and Miles and I talked in excited whis- 
pers. 

“O Anthony! what a pity the robber’s bullet 
didn’t take off a piece of your ear. Dick Northcote 
means to have a scar like the colonel’s when he grows 
up.” 


32 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“ ’Tis a pity,” I admitted, feeling my ear regret- , 
fully. “Nevermind! Dick Northcote’s father never 
shota highwayman; and I don’t believe he's ever seen 
one !” 

It was nearly dark when we reached the Bull’s Head 
Tavern, not far from town. The yard was full of the 
long white covered wagons of farmers and country 
people come in during the day. We left our prisoner 
there with Bob until a constable could be sent out for 
him; then past Tivoli Gardens, crossing Boundary 
Street into the other unpaved streets, dangerous 
enough with their dimoil lamps far apart; stopping 
to leave letters intrusted to us at the stage office, 
Society Street, where the mail stage, just in from 
Columbia, was disgorging numerous passengers. On 
its way-bill was the announcement of Lafayette’s 
coming next day, with an addition, apropos de botes , 
that “the Genius of America yields to that of no other 
Country on Earth, whether it is directed to discoveries 
in subterranean depths or soars in ether amid fields 
of azure.” I committed this to memory while my 
father was busy in the office, thinking it very beauti- 
ful, and could not understand why he should wear so 
amused a smile on reading it afterward. Then on 
we went again, down King Street, turning sharply into 
Queen — we did not change the names of our streets, as j 
did the French, on a change of government — past the 
stables at the sign of the Rising Sun, where our coach | 
would presently be put up, and stopped, at last, before 
the Planter’s Hotel, opposite the Huguenot Church, 
where the colonel had engaged rooms for us. Lights 
were twinkling from all the windows, but that did not 
help the street much until the hotel servants ran out 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


33 

with lanterns, and the coach, emptied of us and the 
luggage, rolled off round the corner. 

“Glad to see you, sir,” cried the landlord, who had 
| known my father all his life, “and Miss Sherwood 
j and the children. Here, Tom, take these things, and 
| show Miss Betty her rooms, some of you others! It’s 
a long time since you’ve been down, Mr. Ashley. I 
have no tavern here at present,” suggestively, “ but the 
waiters can go out and fetch whatever you need.” 

“Thank you, I have brought my own wine,” said my 
father. Then we were glad to take our stiffened limbs 
across the tiled hall and office and up the winding stairs, 
and to our rooms, with their cheery fires. The colonel 
i was out at supper with friends of his, “jolly fellows,” 

! he said, next morning, with a wink ; but Dick North- 
| cote was on hand, and ready to die with envy, we 
i knew, on hearing of our exciting adventure. 

The city was early awake to the roar of artillery 
; salvos, the beating of drums, waving of standards, and 
j the tramp of men marching up the Meeting Street road, 
f There they were to join the guard of honor escorting 
“the marquis, in a landau drawn by four gray horses.” 

| The colonel, rigged out in his famous continental uni- 
form, only forty years old and much too tight, marched 
with the veterans; and my father with the Cincinnati 
, Society. 

“Hurry, hurry, children,” cried Cousin Betty, who 
with all the other ladies in the house wore a silken 
sash, with a copperplate likeness of Lafayette engraved 
upon it. We struggled through the crowd on Broad 
Street, all in holiday attire, and found our places at 
windows reserved, opposite the City Hall. Then a 
tedious wait, enlivened for us, when Cousin Betty was 


34 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


not looking, by the dropping of nut-shells on the heads 
below. At last, drums, music, endless lines of citizens 
and soldiers; and then four gray horses and — the hero 
himsetf. The landau was met at the City Hall by the 
intendant and wardens. The former made a speech 
and the marquis a reply, of which we did not hear 
much. 

“ He is still a handsome man,” sighed Cousin Betty. 

“ How old he is!” cried Miles, disappointed, “and 
they called him ‘the gallant young marquis’ !” Indeed, 
it was a long time since the marquis had needed to 
wear powder in his hair. 

The procession moved on and we children saw of 
Lafayette no more. But our elders went to his recep- 
tion and to the theatre, where he had a box; and to a 
grand ball given for him, where Cousin Betty wore 
her topazes. And finally they saw him off at the 
wharf with the same honors which had greeted his 
coming, the colonel having the pleasure of showing 
him the very spot on Broad Street where the victorious 
Continentals stood during the evacuation while the 
British forces embarked. “ And I do not think Lafay- 
ette even saw the colonel’s uniform. He is perfectly 
well bred,” said my father severely, who had caught 
Miles and me laughing at the venerable toggery. 

The advertisement noted in my father’s pocket-book 
had not been forgotten, and that afternoon he came 
in, announcing: 

“Well, Betty, I have bought the coachman for a 
year. You need not stare, cousin, it is true. The 
eccentric advertiser turns out to be a darkey who had 
purchased his freedom and set himself up in a little 
livery stable; and then between a troublesome son and 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


35 


no head for business, he has spent his money and run 
in debt, and is so perplexed he can think of no plan 
but selling himself again; that is, for a year, he ex- 
plained, with privilege of renewal. ‘I kain’t tek care o’ 
myself nohow, massa,’ he says, ‘an’ I’m jes a-wearyin* 
fer de country!’ So Jupiter and I have come to terms, 
and Mr. Oldfield is making out the papers.” 

“ ’Tis the most extraordinary arrangement!” pro- 
nounced Cousin Betty. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Mr. Oldfield, my father’s lawyer and Mr. North- 
cote’s, had his rooms on St. Michael’s Alley, and 
thither they let us accompany them when they went 
on business next day. We stood talking in the alley 
and listening to the watchman in the steeple overhead 
call the quarter hours and sonorously proclaim that 
“all was well” until they came out, when we had a 
message to give that Bob had followed us to transmit. 
’Twas to the effect that the highwayman now in jail 
was suffering grievously, and would my father go 
round and see the governor. 

“I will go with you; I may be of use,” said Mr. 
Oldfield. 

“And the boys may go back to the hotel.” 

“ Let them go with us, my dear sir,” said Mr. North- 
cote, the kindest of men, but a trifle pompous, which 
we boys supposed to be occasioned by his having served 
a term or two in the legislature — “ let them go with us. 
It will help expand their youthful minds and show them 
the inevitable consequences of evil-doing. You will re- 
member how the Spartans utilized the example of the 
drunken Herlots.” 

So we followed, and through narrow and muddy streets 
and lanes to get there, only the principal thoroughfares 
having sidewalks then. It was a marshy and ill-smell- 
ing quarter that held the gloomy, dark building we 
now entered; and I marvelled to hear the governor con- 

36 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


37 


demned to live in such a place greet us cheerily and 
pleasantly. The first visit was to the wounded high- 
wayman. “You boys will stay here until we come 
back,” said my father, remembering, no doubt, his ribald 
tongue. But he was speechless and unconscious when 
they saw him. “He took a bad turn in the night,” 
said the governor, leading the way back, “ and will not 
last many hours. He has been in jail before and is 
an old offender, so you need not look so grave, my 
dear sir, that your shot has proven fatal.” 

“Better that, after all,” said my father, “than bear 
testimony that would hang him.” 

“We have several here will hang next week,” said 
the governor. “Shall we visit the condemned ward?” 
This time we followed. Down a dark corridor and 
into a large damp room, which had a space inclosed 
within a grating. Behind this were seven men sitting 
on the floor or standing, while outside were about 
fifteen others playing at ball and with greasy cards, 
i thickening the gloomy air with profanity and coarse- 
ness. 

“ ’Tis those inside,” said the governor, in a low tone, 
indicating each brutal and vicious figure as he spoke. 

I “ That one for house-breaking; that one for forger)?’; 
j the tall one, there, for shoplifting; he only got a pa- 
| per of pins and some handkerchiefs before he was 
caught. And the pale, gentlemanly looking man to the 
left for passing a counterfeit promissory note. The 

( evidence against him was slight, and he maintains his 
innocence of the counterfeiting, but he was found guilty 
and he will swing.” The look on this last man’s face 
was ghastly in the extreme, and he took no notice of our 
presence. But his companions were incited thereby to 


38 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


forced bursts of obscene merriment, as horrible as would 
be the laughing of a corpse. 

“ I hear Dandy Roger is to be twisted next week, 
too,” cried a ball-player, 

“ Those who bowl must expect rubbers,” answered 
the man addressed inside the grating. 

“ A kick and it’s all over. What’s that to a brave 
lad, d— n it!” said another. 

“If I’m kept swinging for more than an hour,” de- 
clared one ruffian, with pretended solemnity, “I’ll 
leave directions for an action to be brought against 
Jack Ketch.” On this there was a roar, amid which 
we retreated. 

“No, thank you,” said my father, to the governor’s 
invitation to visit other wards. “ Let us get out into 
the fresh air. Seven of them — good God!” he con- 
tinued when out again in the muddy streets, “ and one of 
them, he says, for stealing about five shillings’ worth.” 

“What would you have, my dear sir?” said Mr. Old- 
field. “ The laws here, which make but eight crimes 
punishable by death, are mild to those in England.” 

“I consider, sir,” said Mr. Northcote, “that soften- 
ing the rigor of justice has been prejudicial to the 
cause of order and virtue. Any further moderation 
would be simply offering a premium to vice. The 
way of the transgressor should be hard.” 

“You hear?” said Mr. Oldfield, with a shrug. 
“And there are many who agree with Mr. Northcote. 
’Twas only last week that Mr. Wright stood up in 
Congress and moved that a recent court-martial should 
not be paid for its services because none of the accused 
were put to death.” 

’Twas a relief to forget all this when, on reaching 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


39 


the hotel, Mrs. Winter and Cousin Betty were found 
getting out of the coach after a shopping tour, and 
mightily pleased with their bargains. There was a 
new boy, too, in the portico, from Edisto, whose father 
our fathers knew, and who made friends immediately, 
offering to show us his new jack-knife. He was chubby 
and freckled, with a turned-up nose, and immensely 
good-natured. He presented me with his old knife 
and whispered: “Your sister’s a pretty little girl, and 
she’s nicer than the other.” This was a novel idea, 
and I went upstairs to look into it, followed by the 
others. The girls were trying on new bonnets and 
tippets before the mirror, and Cousin Betty was puz- 
zling over her change. 

“Let me see,” she said musingly, “milk of roses, 
essence bergamot, and Hungary water from Formento 
and Zuccotti — um — um — silver tongue-scraper and belt- 
clasp from jeweller’s; amethyst seal to be marked with 
arms and motto; bonnet, tippet, and cap from Madam 
Durang — she has moved, Cousin Anthony, to the corner 
of Dutch Church Alley — Taberary curtains, from 
London, trimmed with gold lace and Parisian 
fringe ” 

“I thought we had curtains enough, Betty,” from 
my father. 

“ Oh, but these were such a bargain, cousin ! They 
must have been smuggled. They can be put away in 
lavender for grand occasions. Taffeta and sarsnet rib- 
bons, sprigged mull muslin with thread lace; open- 
work robe with petticoat and collar to match; spencer 
a la Jeanne d’Arc — that’s a pretty thing, Mrs. Winter; a 
Caroline cloak for Nell — a lace veil and two tuckers, 
besides the orders for the plantation and the books. 


40 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


Change lacks two shillings and sevenpence I cannot 
account for, but it doesn’t matter. How do you 
like the bonnets, cousin ? Nell’s is the ‘Little Prim- 
rose’ and Dorothy’s the ‘Lily of the Valley,’ both 
monstrous genteel, I think, Mrs. Winter; but ‘ Mrs. 
Madison’s Taste’ is most becoming for you and me.” 

We strolled out together in the late afternoon, when 
the ladies were still tired from their morning’s outing, 
down through Church and Water Streets to the Bat- 
tery, and there looked out at the water and talked of 
Blackbeard, who once blockaded the town, and whose 
men went swaggering and stumping about the shops 
and streets until the indignant but terrified towns- 
people furnished all the supplies needed. Northcote 
declared we were standing on the exact spot where 
Captain Steed Bonnet and his pirate crew were hanged 
in chains. “Their spirits often walk here,” he af- 
firmed. 

When we returned Colonel Milton was sternly affix- 
ing a notice to the Long Room door at the hotel which 
stated : 

“The owner of a green Umbrella, taken from the 
back-room in this House, has waited with Patience in 
the Expectation of its Return. Description of Umbrella 
will not be given; but Description of Person who took 
it may shortly appear to his Disadvantage.” Then he 
strode away, and we saw other notices. 

“Fine, fat, green Turtle at Carolina Coffee House. 
Families supplied with Soup and Steaks, by sending 
early.” 

“Supper of the Ancient Artillery at nine promptly, 
in the Long Room of this House to-night. 17th Rule 
will be strictly enforced against defaulters.” 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


41 


We would be there. It was our bedtime ; but a little 
coaxing and bribing of Caesar, who was to wait behind 
my father’s chair, had gained our point. The judicious 
arrangement of a screen — and who would know ? 

“Dat’sef yo’ all keep still,” said Caesar, shaking 
his woolly head doubtfully. “ I spec’ I git a lickin’ 
ef ’tis found out.” 

We were all four boys squeezed in a corner behind 
the screen, as still as mice and provided with a bottle 
of “ Imperial Pop,” or “Aerated Lemon Water,” to 
drink one toast with. The banquet commenced with 
turtle and a prodigious amount of wine to flavor it. 
Then, with more solid material, came inquiries and 
compliments and dissertations on crops and politics. 
The animated clatter of knives and forks began to 
make us look doubtfully one at another, and wonder 
if bed were not better than this Barmecide’s feast. 
But after awhile, when serious business was over and 
dessert and wine only remained and the servants had 
departed — Caesar with a warning cough — it was more 
entertaining. “The Union” was drunk first; then the 
memory of “The Father of his Country,” standing — 
we would have drunk this, but had not yet succeeded 
in drawing the cork of our bottle — “ The President,” 
“The Heroes of the Revolution,” “The Army,” “The 
Navy,” “Our Allies.” 

In the reply to this there was an allusion to Bona- 
parte, “the swindler of Ferdinand, the murderer of 
D’Enghien, the scourge of Europe,” which caused 
Richard Northcote to give a very imprudent kick to 
the screen. My father replied to the toast to Commo- 
dores Perry and Decatur, he having served in 1812, 
and we joined in the applause. There were several 


42 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


songs sung, such as “ Bonnets of Blue,” “Oft in the 
Stilly Night,” and “Shining River.” The colonel, 
who sat near the screen, volunteered: “ Malbrook s' en 
va-t-en-guerre ,” and indulged, besides, in his specialty 
to an extent sufficient for the entire army of Flanders, 
little suspecting who were behind him. 

All this while we had been struggling, each in turn, 
with our obstinate cork, and it was now in Tom 
Broadacre’s hands. The toast, “Our late illustrious 
Guest,” was proposed, “who has, after all,” said the 
speaker, “treated us shabbily, for we gave him freely 
in welcome what we could, and he has gone off, cora?n 
latronibus , with all our hearts.” This was very neat, 
and we looked anxiously at Tom Broadacre to see if 
the cork had come. A final tug, and — it had, unfor- 
tunately. The “ Imperial Pop” was much “poppier,” 
to coin a word, than we had suspected. It went up to 
the ceiling with a bang, carrying the cork, which then 
descended on the colonel’s head, a stream of lemon- 
water following down his high stock. 

“D — nation!” cried he, jumping up and upsetting 
his chair. My father rose and pushed the screen to 
one side, leaving us revealed, in a condition of tempo- 
rary paralysis, Tom Broadacre, with his mouth wide 
open, holding the empty bottle extended. A burst of in- 
extinguishable laughter followed from the banqueters, 
and my father said cuttingly : “ I hope you have enjoyed 
yourselves, young gentlemen. Though unexpected, 
your presence has been quite a feature in the evening’s 
entertainment. You may retire now. ” And as we filed 
out, dejectedly but quickly, another peal of laughter 
pursued us to our rooms and into our dreams. 

We kept our eyes on our plates at breakfast when 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


43 


Cousin Betty remarked: “The banquet must have been 
a pleasant occasion, gentlemen. I heard a vast deal of 
laughter.” My father’s lips parted, but the friendly 
colonel interposed at once: 

“Madam, the banquet was delightful, but those 
cursed mulatto serenaders, who played under our win- 
dows afterward, disturbed me fearfully. I scarcely 
slept a wink. If they come again, I promise you I 
will break the heads of the caterwaulers with their 
own instruments.” 

Of course we took the earliest opportunity of apolo- 
gizing to him for last night’s misadventure. 

“ ’Twas nothing at all, my boys, nothing at all,” he 
assured us good-naturedly; “made me jump and took 
a little of the starch out of my stock. But if I were 
you, my dear fellows,” with a touch of seriousness, “ I 
would not attend an affair of that kind again, uninvited. 
No, I really would not. What was that sticky stuff in 
your bottle? Imperial Pop? That is a brand I am 
not acquainted with, though I know most. Not intoxi- 
cating, I hope? You remember the wretched fate of 
poor Sterne?” The colonel had a headache himself 
this morning. 

Caesar, on hearing the story of the “ Imperial Pop,” 
instantly, with alia darkey’s tact, diverted his master’s 
attention from his own share in the matter by report- 
ing that ’twas necessary to get Bob out of the guard- 
house, where he was now lodged. And ’twas through 
imprudence in letting himself be caught by the patrol 
last night without a written pass from his owner, 
after the nine-o’clock bell and drum-beat, which was 
contrary to the rules for slaves. 

It will scarcely be believed that after our experience 


44 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


of dismal scenes at the jail we should voluntarily seek 
one even more dreadful. But the fact is, the hanging 
fixed for a certain day was public — the gallows being 
erected already outside the jail-yard; and there was 
so much talk of it as a holiday event among the ne- 
groes, and indeed some of the whites, that we resolved 
to go without mentioning the matter to our elders. I 
was reluctant at first; but when Dick Northcote sneered 
at me as a “ girl-baby” and Miles and Tom were so 
eager, rather than be left behind I went. 

It seemed like a Fourth of July celebration, crowds 
streaming along the streets and lanes converging toward 
the hideous wooden machine, high in the bright sunlight, 
and little stands with cakes and beer doing a thriving 
business along the route. We could not get very near, 
so dense was the throng, but stood in the mud some 
distance off — two creeks here intersecting the region — 
and looked and listened to the people talking, laugh- 
ing, and cracking nuts and jokes. Dick Northcote 
found rather a high stump and let Miles share it with 
him. 

A great iron bell clanged and the prison gate 
opened. “They’re coming!” Then dead silence, filled 
up again gradually with whispers and comments. 
“ ’Tis the forger!” said Dick when the first figure 
mounted the ladder. In a few minutes it was over. I 
kept my head up and my face set in that direction, 
not to be called a “girl-baby,” but felt sick and queer. 
The next man said something which made the crowd 
laugh. He, too, was presently dangling in shapeless, 
hideous degradation; and then I saw nothing more 
until I opened my eyes in the jailer’s wife’s room, 
Where Tom and Miles had carried me. Immediately 




IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


45 


on my return to consciousness Tom ran off to rejoin 
Northcote; but Miles, though wondering at me, 
stayed and held my hand, the noises without, so signifi- 
cant, making me shudder from head to foot. 

“Your pa’ll be here soon,” said the good woman. 
“I’ve sent for him. Boys oughtn’t to come to hang- 
ings.” However, the crowd had partially dispersed 
before he was found and, with Mr. Northcote, made 
his way to us. 

“I’m all right now, sir,” said I, standing up at 
once on meeting his anxious eyes. “ I was only a 
little giddy. ” 

“Just so,” said he dryly. “If I had known what a 
care you boys would have been, I should have left you 
at Woodhurst, Miles, you should not have ventured to 
come to such a place without asking me. As for you, 
Anthony, having come, I am ashamed that you should 
be so weak. You would make a poor soldier, with 
that sort of squeamishness. I suppose had you been 
with me on the deck of the Decatur , slippery with 
blood, you would have made yourself useful, fainting 
away comfortable in some corner like a lady.” 

But he knew the difference and laid his hand gently 
enough on my head. This was one of the rare occasions 
I ever heard him allude to having served as volunteer 
under Captain Diron, of the Decatur ) where he got 
that wound which caused the halt in his walk, of 
which we boys were so proud. He took care we 
should leave the jail by a private door with our backs 
turned to the horrid scene. But in this court-yard 
was a man, standing on the pillory, a ludicrous sight, 
though painful, his head, hands, and feet sticking out 
through the apertures where they were fixed. A 
4 


46 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


placard overhead read: “James Blake mate of the 
sloop Lawrence of this port convicted of Misprison of 
Piracy, sentenced to Pillory. Fine and imprisonment. ” 

“A painful sight,” murmured my father. 

“I must differ from you, Mr. Ashley,” replied Mr. 
Northcote loftily. “ ’Tis a useful detergent example to 
the young. I quite approve of my Richard’s wish to 
attend this execution.” He generally did approve of 
Richard, who boasted, indeed, that he could twist his 
father round his finger. If our parent was severe, as 
I thought at the time, he was also good enough to 
look himself to our amusement, giving up for that 
purpose engagements to dinners and suppers, both 
private and public. He took us to a grand display 
of fireworks, advertised, “weather permitting,” at the 
Bathing House Retreat, East End Laurens Street, where 
there was “ a piazza for the Reception of Ladies and 
Gentlemen, gratis.” But you were expected to pur- 
chase milk-punch and syllabubs. And to the theatre 
on Broad Street with “Three doors, all opening out- 
ward” — the Richmond Theatre fire was still talked about 
— to see “ The Iron Chest; or, The Mysterious Murder,” 
in which the gloom was somewhat lightened by Master 
Legge’s graceful performance of the sailor’s hornpipe 
and the Highland reel in costume. 

Our last treat was to Mr. Miller’s reading-room and 
“cash store,” at the sign of the Franklin’s Head, for 
us each to select what we chose as a gift. Cousin 
Betty took a bottle of “Napoleon Cologne,” marked 
“very strong,” for Lucinda, and other trifles for the 
house servants at Woodhurst. The little girls had 
new reticules and fans, the boys, ivory-handled riding- 
whips, and my father let me select a book besides, 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


47 


in which choice all assisted me with their judgment. 
Tom Broadacre earnestly pressed on my notice: 44 A 
Circumstantial Account of the Cruise of the Ship 
Louisa James , Almeida, Baltimore to Buenos Ayres,” 
relating at full length a mutiny of buccaneers, who 
composed her crew, by Chas. Fullerton, gunner’s mate, 
to which is added 44 Confession of Robert Wolf, and 
account of Execution, along with Geo. Weeks, Printed, 
Published and Sold by Henry Cooper, Cheapside, 
London.” Cousin Betty as strongly recommended a 
new novel by the author of a 44 Waverly. ” 

44 Let the boy choose for himself,” cried my father, 
and ran over the bookseller’s list to help me. 44 ‘Ras- 
selas;’ Gil Bias;’ ‘Pinkerton’s Travels;’ the 4 Spec- 
tator;’ Burns; Byron; Chapone’s 4 Letters;’ ‘Don 
Quixote;’ ‘The Scottish Chiefs’ — we have all these; 
‘The Hungarian Brothers;’ ‘Thaddeus of Warsaw’ — 
you have not that.” So Thaddeus was borne affec- 
tionately away under my arm, and installed in due 
time as newest and highest hero in my already large 
collection of those stars. 

There was material enough in this visit for a thou- 
sand Munchausen tales on our return to the planta- 
tion. And I wonder the twins’ eyes did not come out, 
so far did we make them bulge with wonder at our 
stories. 


CHAPTER V. 


The subject had been mooted while we were in town 
of leaving the girls there at school. 

“ I can ill spare my Eleanor,” said my father fondly, 
“ but she must not be entirely country-bred as to accom- 
plishments. ” 

“I am sure,” cried Cousin Betty, “Eleanor can 
sew and knit and make tambour-work, cake, cordials, 
and confections with any girl of her age in the Union, 
besides reading and writing.” 

“Both of which come by nature, as we know,” said 
my father, “ but a few of the gifts of fortune would 
not be amiss.” 

“Mrs. Hamilton, from London, advertises,” sug- 
gested Mrs. Winter, “ that she takes every means to 
eradicate provincial errors in language. ” 

“Confound her British impudence!” said the colonel 
hotly. “You can tell her we import our errors from 
the mother country, with almost all our other house- 
hold furniture. Have you ever been in Lancashire 
or Devon, Mr. Ashley ?” 

“I spent four years in England,” said my father 
briefly. 

“ I mean to learn the piano-forte with the criro- 
plast,” called Dorothy, hopping about gayly, like a 
bird — Nell was rather downcast — “and all the new 
dances and the guitar, and painting on ivory and satin 

48 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


49 

and velvet — and the flageolet! Can’t I learn the 
flageolet, mother?’' 

"The harp is more suitable for a young lady,” said 
Cousin Betty primly, “ more graceful — and — and — 
poetic.” 

“No, I like the flageolet best,” persisted Dorothy, 
and her parents gave in at once to the spoiled child. 

On inquiry, Mrs. Hamilton seeming to be, apart 
from her British impudence, rather a desirable teacher, 
it was arranged that the girls should be sent down 
after their holidays to her establishment. 'Twas a 
great house with a high-walled garden, an old lamp 
keeping guard over the front gate on a back street, 
narrow and dark, but fashionable then when building 
space was less by reason of creeks. Out of that gar- 
den the pupils trotted sedately, two and two, only 
twice a week — once to church and once to Monsieur 
Fayolle, the dancing master’s “afternoon assemblies,” 
at the St. Ursula Concert-Room. 

“And it is specially impressed upon them,” said 
Mrs. Hamilton, “that no well-bred young lady would 
permit herself to be seen looking out of a window!” 

Caesar, my father’s man, was to be married, on 
Christmas Eve of this year, to Lucinda, Cousin Betty’s 
maid, which event made the holidays more than 
usually festive. 

“I wish ’twas over,” complained Cousin Betty. 
“ Lucinda is no use at all now. She nearly let me 
come down this morning, en papillotes , without my 
cap; and yesterday poured cream and sugar over the 
hogshead cheese.” The bride-elect went about with 
her head on one side, looking like a “ pop-eye mullet,” 
said Tom Broadacre, who had come from Edisto to 


50 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


spend Christmas with us. Caesar attracted our atten- 
tion by putting his hands so frequently in his trousers- 
pocket that Miles asked him if he was afraid of pick- 
pockets. 

“No, sah, no, Mas’ Miles!” with dignity; “ ’tis my 
graveyard rabbit-fut dat I feelin’ fer luck at dis ’spi- \ 
cious time.” We had no service, just now, at our par- 
ish-church, ministers being rare in the country in those 
days; but a negro preacher was to come from a dis- 
tance for the wedding. 

My father presented the supper, which was laid at 
one end of the spacious barn; the other being reserved 
for the dancing. Whether “ the quarters, ” where ’coon, 
’possum with sweet potatoes, corn-cake with crackling, 
sausages, and such delicacies abounded, or the pantry 
with its cakes and cordials were the more attractive 
place was a problem we solved by trying to be every- 
where at once ; and Castor and Pollux laid up for them- 
selves numerous whippings when any one had time to 
give them, with an I. O. U. on the spot in shape of 
a cuff. The way in which the new coachman, Jupiter, 
took the lead amused my father. He understood the 
care of horses thoroughly, and in course of time be- 
came so tyrannical that the family were only allowed 
to have the equipage or steeds selected by him for 
the day. He even tried to manage our marsh-tackies, 
but on that point we conquered. I may say here that 
he never left us; his entire purchase-money being laid 
up in the bank for him, and loyally offered to the 
family for their use when the fortunes of war seemed 
to him to make need possible. ’Twas as a fiddler, how- 
ever, that his popularity among the negroes was assured, 
his first performance subjugating them completely. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


51 


“I kin beat him on de banjo, dough !” cried Pollux. 

“An’ I kin beat you jiggin’ !” boasted Castor, patter- 
ing away with his bare feet. 

The last touches were given the bride’s toilet in 
Cousin Betty’s dressing-room, who lent her a set of 
cameos and fastened on the veil and wreath with her 
own hands. 

“You look lovely, Cinda!” we all exclaimed — and 
she showed her dazzling teeth, divining that this was 
more effective, in her case, than a blush. The groom 
went to his fate in a suit of my father’s, an enormous 
white cravat, and with many a reassuring touch of his 
rabbit-foot. The speeches and toasts at supper were 
rousing enough, but ’twas afterward that real fun 
came. “ Money-Musk ” and “ Old Dan Tucker ” — what 
flings and swings and pigeon- wings! The floor shook. 
Games followed where one person stood in the middle; 
the others, holding hands, circled swiftly around sing- 
ing: 

“ Oh, darkies, ain’t yo’ sorry, do, do, do! 

I’m goin’ upon de railroad, do, do, do! 

Miss Sally, she lub sugar cake, 

Miss Sally, she lub candy, 

Miss Sally, she kin reel an’ tu’n 
An’ kiss dis n’young man handy! ” 

which Miss Sally, leaving the ring, proceeded to do 
with affected bashfulness and sufficient frequency, mak- 
ing the air resound with smacks. To another oscula- 
tory game the singing accompaniment, having refer- 
ence to a Charleston regulation, ran: 

*' Oh, de bell done ring, an’ de drum done beat, 

An’ I’m in dis lady’s garden. 


52 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


Do, do, let me out, 

Fer I’m in dis lady’s garden; 

I’ll gib you fat ’possum fer let me out. 

An’ I’m in dis lady’s garden; 

I’ll gib you sweet kiss fer let me out, 

Fer I’m in dis lady’s garden! ” 

Whereupon further smacks were resumed, to release a 
hapless, belated darkey from his fear of the guard- 
house. My father came in in the midst of this and 
promptly sent us off, each with a piece of wedding- 
cake. 

The Christmas jubilations followed, with exchange 
of gifts and general mirth and dances and dinners 
among all the families on neighboring plantations. 
Foolish, but cloudless days! If I dwell on them, ’ tis 
because the freshness of the morning is more tempting 
than the sultry noontide, with its fierce heat and sud- 
den storm-clouds. What is there marks the flight of 
years like the difference in our enjoyment of Christ- 
mas? Eheu! fugaces posthume! there comes a day when 
we must nerve ourselves for the ordeal of a holiday, 
that we may not sadden others with our painful 
memories. 

Shortly after this, the girls went away to the correct 
Mrs. Hamilton to learn deportment. At Easter my 
father said: “ Now, Miles and Anthony, ’tis your turn. 
You have gone as far as you can at our country school, 
and ’tis time to think more seriously of your studies. 
How would you like to cross the sea and go to West- 
minster and Oxford, as I did?” 

“ O father!” I cried, “I would like it of all 
things!” but Miles said nothing then. At bed-time 
he came to my father and said steadily: 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


53 


“ Father, you know I don’t care for books and such 
matters, as Anthony does. Why should I leave home 
and all of you for so long, and have you waste all that 
money on me?” 

“ I would wish the future owner of Woodhurst to be 
a man of cultivation.” 

“ Yes, I know,” simply, “ and I am sorry. But I can 
do very well here in Charleston. Let me stay at un- 
cle’s and take lessons. I will study medicine later, if 
you think it would be useful on the place.” 

My father looked at him standing; his handsome 
face flushed and frank, blue eyes earnest; sighed once 
or twice, and consented. As for me, I was aghast at 
the idea of a separation from my dear old fellow, the 
constant companion of each hour; but became pres- 
ently reconciled as the preparations for departure and 
anticipations of new and exciting scenes absorbed me. 

Passage was taken for me on the “ Fast Sailing 
Packet Ship Two Carpenters , Captain Handy,” which 
had made the trip over in thirty-five days and was 
now lying at Benjamin Langstaff’s wharf. Castor and 
Pollux came down, being permitted to see me off; and 
the former blubbered so wildly that his twin, though 
crying himself, was forced to soothe him by a kick or 
two, skilfully applied to a sensitive spot on his shins. 
Cousin Betty thrust “ Pinkerton’s Travels” into my 
hand as an appropriate parting gift; the girls waved 
their handkerchiefs when they were not wiping their 
eyes; Miles stood motionless beside my father and the 
colonel. When their dear faces receded from sight, as 
we left Benjamin Langstaff’s wharf far behind, I must 
confess I hid myself behind a pile of rope and canvas, 
and did not emerge until the captain came by, when I 


54 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


observed, with a jaunty air of manliness, that I be- 
lieved sea-spray was apt to make the eyes red. 

As this part of my record concerns our life in Caro- 
lina rather than elsewhere, I pass over the years spent 
in England. 

I did not come out very near senior wrangler; but 
my progress in study, both at Westminster and Oxford, 
satisfied my father, and I was happy in his approval. 
That I was sometimes led or walked wilfully into my 
share of folly, I will not deny; and I have more than 
once felt a touch of the colonel’s tic douloureux, both 
in head and conscience, when my father’s face con- 
fronted me from the miniature in my desk. And two 
wretched months of suspense were passed, one year, 
between sending and receiving reply, with inclosure, 
to a certain letter of confession. It happened but 
once, my father’s few remarks impressing me deeply. 

Richard Northcote had chosen to finish his studies 
at the Ecole Polytechnique in Paris; and while distin- 
guishing himself by brilliant versatility, was also, ru- 
mor said, a leader in the wildest set of the Latin Quar- 
ter. Some of their adventures were talked of as actually 
disgraceful; but this was not necessarily true, as at 
twenty years, lodged in a garret or elsewhere, it is 
only requisite to chant “ Le roi d’Yvetot" or “ Dum 
vivimus” in the street at midnight to acquire a very 
bad reputation. Tom Broadacre, at least, found him- 
self rusticated from Harvard for a practical joke, of 
which he wrote me in a serio-comic letter. He got 
through somehow afterward, having a facility both 
for getting in and out of scrapes, and announced his 
going home as a “happy escape from those musty old 
quizzes, Homer, Virgil, and the rest of the gang,” and 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


55 


he never “ propposed” — that was the way he spelled it 
— “ to renew his acquaintance with them.” In this 
light, it seemed the clearest wisdom on Miles’ part 
to be on excellent speaking and spelling terms with 
his own language, and not spend time unprofitably 
with the classics. ’Twas toward the end of my last 
year that I received the following epistles from home: 

“ Charleston, S. C. 

“ My Dear Anthony: — Your last package of letters 
sent by the Brig Lovely Kezia reached us safely, hav- 
ing been but thirty days in passage. The Captain 
called with them himself. He was pleased to find our 
Madeira wine the finest he had ever tasted — as it ought 
to be, after being round the Cape three times. Sea- 
faring men are excellent good companie for gentlemen, 
I make no doubt, but eccentricke in talk. 

“ The Limerick gloves you sent Nell were a perfect 
fit, and suited her new spangled gown sweetly, and my 
silver muslin caps are much praised, as of the latest 
mode, and vastly becoming. Your father was also 
much pleased with his present. As he will tell you, he 
has been elected to Congress, and must leave next 
month; but will make new arrangements at Woodhurst, 
during his absence. You will see, by this heading, 
that we are still in town. The girls are so much in 
love with gayety, their first season, that the Winters and 
I are held here — Lucinda being in charge at Woodhurst. 
I think you will be surprised when you see Dorothy. 
She has improved vastly, and has scores of admirers. 
Mrs. Hamilton admitted that she felt releaved of a 
responsibility when she finished and left. There are 
so many young men in that street — and one even pre- 


56 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


tended to hurt himself by falling near the gate, so as 
to get in; but she had her coach take him home ime- 
dately. She is a woman of majesticke presance and 
very prudent, and, I hear, has had some of her poems 
published in the Minerviad. 

“Our Nell too has her share of attention, and Tom 
Broadacre pursues her everywhere. But I shall be glad 
to get back to our dear Woodhurst next month, though 
I shall miss your father sadly. Now it is Balls, Sup- 
pers, and Assemblies every night, and Serenades 
towards morning when an old lady, like your cousin 
would be glad to sleep. Dorothy’s head might be 
turned, but she seems to take all as a matter of course. 
Besides, her selection being maid — but I was to leave 
your father to tell you this Great piece of news, Only, 
I will say, that when she and Miles led the dance at 
the St. Urula Concert Room the other night, there was 
a buzz of admiration all over the room. 

“ I was glad you found time for another visit to Kent. 
Though I have never met my relatives there, I am 
still sensable of the Ties of blood and hope to see them 
hear some day. Present my respectfull complimants to 
them. 

“ The rest of the family are now writing you. Castor 
begged me to tell you ‘howdy ’ for him, I think he 
will drive the negroes on the place wild with envy of 
his silver watch. Miles had to buy one for Pollux im- 
edately and they both wear them Sundays, with a 
number of jingling brass charms. Hoping to hear 
from you as soon as conveniant, I am, with prayers for 
your welfare, 

“Your most Afectionate, 

“Betty Sherwood. ” 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


57 


My father’s letter ran: 

“ My Beloved Son: — Yours of the 20th ultimo came 
to hand, and I was heartily glad to find both that and 
the Captain bearing news of your continued well being. 
Your wish to travel on the Continent, after leaving 
1 Oxford, meets with my entire approval. I shall now 
be absent from home myself, for some time, having 
been sent as M. C. to Washington, and, as Miles is not 
| ready to assume charge as yet — not having finished his 
course at the Medical College — I have engaged, for 
1 the first time, a white overseer, Francis Doubleday, by 
name, a native of New Hampshire. I have had a com- 
fortable cottage built for him, on the place, close by 
: that clump of trees, you remember, near the black- 
! smith’s shop. He mentioned that he had been mar- 
ried, about a year, to a girl employed at a factory in 
j his native town: a simple, quiet person, from his ac- 
| count and may be useful. I had thought the Mustee 
Cato, whom I bought of Captain Marsden, might have 
been trained to take charge, under Miles, but dis- 
: missed the idea, he proving shifty and dishonest. 

| Evidence of this was given recently, in town. Our 
stock of wine from Woodhurst, running unaccountably 
I low, and Jupiter ailing, I sent to the small corner- 

I grocery for a bottle of their best, for him. On tasting, 
it struck me as remarkably fine, and further tasting 
convinced me that ’twas my own old Comet Madeira. 
Your cousin laughed at the idea, as impossible. But 
so it turned out; and I was actually buying my own 
wine, which Cato had sold the grocer. I shall sell 
him, as he is too idle for a field hand, and too untrust- 
worthy for anything else. 


58 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“ I do not know if your Cousin Betty mentioned in 
hers, that Dorothy Winter has grown to be the toast 
of the town. ’Tis quite two years now since I wrote 
you of our celebration of Miles’ majority. He has 
lingered in the city this winter on one pretext and 
another; but last week came and asked me to sanc- 
tion his betrothal to Dorothy. The Winters and I 
both thought them young yet; but, otherwise, a match 
in every way desirable. And Miles, having our con- 
sent, is perfectly willing to wait and let the girl enjoy 
herself to the top of her bent. He does not sigh away 
as much time, as do others, under her windows; seems 
fairly rational, and if there is to be any confidential 
raving of hearts and darts, it is reserved for your sym- 
pathetic ear, on your return. Eleanor looks well, and 
is pleased, in a quiet way, with their junketting, but 
she and Betty will not be sorry to sober down at Wood- 
hurst again. 

“ You will share my sense of loss at the death, in the 
country, of our friend and neighbor, Mr. Northcote. 
Richard was recalled from France, but did not reach 
Oaklands in time, and we did not see him, as he went 
at once to their place. I hear that he was unduly 
chagrined at the entire property being left to Mrs. 
Northcote. He has long known that he was but the 
adopted son of that childless couple; but, from a pecu- 
niary point of view, it does not matter, as he is her 
manager and will undoubtedly inherit all. Nothing 
showed the good heart of our departed friend more 
than his constant, fatherly care for Richard. 

“ There is some excitement here over a railroad to be 
built as far as Midway. Great things are predicted of 
this new mode of travel: the Baltimore and Ohio R. R. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


59 


claiming, I hear, to be able to make the incredible 
speed of fifteen miles an hour. Of course, ’tis a news- 
paper exaggeration. 

“ I am pleased that the Sherwoods liked the turtles I 
sent over. You will go down to Kent again, I suppose, 
before leaving England. You have not mentioned if 
there are any fair daughters among the family. Ah! 
Anthony, if you ever write sonnets to a mistress’ eye- 
brow — unlike Miles, you will masterfully insist that it 
shall be turned continually in your direction. 

“ Though most eager to see you, I must consent to a 
further separation, for a time. During which you 
have the constant blessing of 

“Your loving father, 

“Anthony Ashley.’* 

The Sherwoods mentioned in both these letters were 
relatives of Cousin Betty’s father, and whom my father 
used to visit when in England. There were several 
stalwart sons and but one daughter, quite a little 
girl, who looked like our Eleanor, but prettier, I think. 


CHAPTER VI. 


“ ’Tis too bad, Mr. Ashley/' said Captain Handy, 
stopping a moment on the deck in his busy hurrying 
to and fro, “to be almost within sound of St. Michael’s 
bells, and not see even the tip of the steeple; but,” 
jestingly, “you have seen so many famous spires, in 
your wanderings for the last year or two, that you can 
afford to wait for this one.” 

“None that I longed for as I do for St. Michael’s,” 
cried I, for this was surely not the ideal home-coming 
after long absence, to be tossing off Drunken Dick 
Shoals, in a dirty sea, with an ugly Scotch mist ob- 
scuring sky and shore, and waiting helplessly until the 
aid sent for arrived. I was sharing the inevitable fate 
of “pleasant surprises,” from the days of Agamemnon 
downward. Hearing that the brig Sea Serpent , with 
my old friend Captain Handy in command, was about to 
start on the trip across, I had run over from Paris arid 
persuaded him easily to take me as sole passenger, thus 
forestalling my expected return home by a month. 
And of course we encountered rough seas and head 
winds, and lost part of our rigging, and reached 
Charleston harbor in a disabled condition, to be towed 
into port. 

I gave another disgusted look at surroundings, and 
would have gone below to the society of “ Quentin Dur- 
ward,” when a shrill whistle was heard and ringing of 
a bell, and a great panting and splashing, and the 
60 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


6 1 

smoke-stack of a little steamer worked its way through 
the mist, and we made out the Robert Fulton bearing 
down on us. The usual shouted colloquy and general 
I noise over, their captain came aboard. Over the bul- 
I wark of the ship leaned a much-wrapped-up gentleman 
| holding an umbrella over a feminine form beside him, 

I the mist having now changed into a steady, drizzling 
( rain. I might have fancied it Nell, but Cousin Betty 
'1 would never let her out in such weather, and she was, 
besides, not nearly so tall. I knew, too, that they did 
not look for me until next month, so I idly speculated 
on the form and face of the adventurous unknown fair 
: one, enveloped from head to foot in a long cloak — one 
f of the capes, as well as the hood, held by a slim white 
< hand well over her head as a protection against the 
' salt spray dashing high over the rail. I started when 
I the captain of the Fulton called: “Some friends of 
yours on my boat, Mr. Ashley.” Friends? I was 
j quickly over the side, leaving the luggage to be trans- 
j ferred at Captain Handy’s leisure. The hands were 
; all busy now, and the slippery, dripping deck almost 
deserted where the gentleman with the umbrella stood, 
i I went forward doubtfully, and, his shield now lowered, 
discerned the homely, kindly features of Mr. Winter, 
i “Welcome home! Anthony, my dear boy!” he 
! called. “ I have not a hand to offer you at this mo- 
ment, but that will do later. ’Twas by the merest 
; accident that we heard of your being on the Sea Ser- 
m pent — and none of your folks in town! Will you be- 
: i; lieve that this piece of mischief on my arm not only 
J insisted on my bringing her out in the rain, but would 
(!j not let me hail you or say a word until you came 
I aboard?” 


5 


62 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“ He meant to surprise us, papa, and so I wished to 
treat him to a rival surprise,” called a voice of music 
from the enveloping capes, which, on being dropped, 
disclosed a face framed in its dark hood like a rose in 
its leaves. The rain-drops glistening on the damask 
cheek and curling golden-chestnut locks blown about 
by the wind answered for dew. Was this little Doro- 
thy Winter? The unveiling of her fair face seemed 
suddenly to brighten and illuminate the dreary day; 
the sound of her voice, like a chime of silver bells, to 
ring out a promise of joy and gladsome content to a 
dull world, where the rain it raineth every day. O 
beauty, wondrous gift! always new and surprising! If 
covering sometimes inward deformity or untoward fate, 
still what a power is thine! Dominating subtly, irre- 
sistibly, without an effort! How do the wise school 
themselves and others that there is no worth in aught 
but moral loveliness, and in a moment find themselves 
overcome, subdued, drawn where she will by one of 
Lyconnidae’s hairs! 

The very sailors paused in their tasks for furtive and 
prolonged looks. That I was dazzled she must have 
seen, but took it as naturally as a queen the homage 
to which she is born. 

“The cabin is a thought drier than this,” said Mr. 
Winter, and into the cabin we went. His hands now 
free, the kind gentleman shook mine, both of them, 
over and over, assuring me of his pleasure in my re- 
turn. “ And, bless me, Anthony, how you have grown! 
but Miles — you will be surprised at his size! The 
Continental tour must have given you that bronze, and 
quite the grand air, eh, Dorothy?” 

Dorothy had been busy undoing the innumerable 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


63 


clasps of the long cloak, and now let it fall from her 
l slender, rounded form, clad in a narrow shot silk edged 
with some gray fur. I will not say a word for the 
f fashions of my youth. I will not even deny that they 
were, as is claimed, dangerous to health in their scan- 
tiness and clinging insufficiency, which, perhaps, re- 
sulted in what is now called a survival of the fittest 
! among the fair sex. But when a woman’s form is as 
perfect in youthful beauty as was Dorothy Winter’s it 
, could well bear the clasping sheath which covered, yet 
|j not shrouded, its charms. I, who had seen and met 
in foreign cities many noted beauties, had seen noth- 
1 ing comparable to this lovely creature, in her spring- 
time, illuming the little dingy cabin. She came 
toward me now, her white hands out, which I took in 
mine. “ I think — perhaps — so old a friend — if you do 
not mind the taste of salt spray” — with a glance from 
under fringed lashes, she murmured. And I realized 
that I might touch the fair cheek. 

“ You are, oh! so changed,” she cried, moving back 
a step. “ Not so tall as Miles, but taller than your 
father, and more like the Landgrave’s picture than 
: ever. Have I grown, too?” demurely. 

| “To tell you what I thought of the beauteous appa- 
! rition which greeted me on the deck,” said I, bowing, 

! “ I cannot find becoming words without trenching on 
; Miles’ privilege of extravagance. Had he been in my 
; place, he would say that not Aphrodite’s self slow- 
! rising from the foaming wave could seem more daz- 
1 zling fair than Miss Winter shining ’mid gray mist, the 
j sea-spray sparkling in her hair.” 

“ He would say nothing of the kind, as you well 
I know,” she cried, elevating her dimpled chin in charm- 


64 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


in g disdain. “ Home-keeping youths have ever wits 
which they better employ than in paying elaborate 
compliments to old friends. Why do you look so? Is 
it because you fancied women never look into a book 
or quote by chance? And I am sure,” with a magic 
softening in tone, “that Miles’ brother is no mere ac- 
quaintance that he should call me Miss Winter!” 

“ Then let this Winter of your discontent change 
into glorious summer for a son of Ashley, sweetest 
Dorothy.” She smiled, showing two other lurking 
places for Love to hide in, and stretched forth her fair 
hand once more, over which I bent. 

“ Heyday !” exclaimed Mr. Winter, bewildered. 
“What is all this flourish of trumpets and grand cere- 
mony between two children who used to play and quar- 
rel together?” 

“ Papa is jealous !” she cried, running to him and lay- 
ing her head upon his shoulder. “ He is quite a Turk, 
Anthony, and will let me look at no one but himself.” 

“Anthony will know how much of that to believe,” 
growled Mr. Winter, like a good-natured bear. “In 
the mean time, you are blinding me with all this soft 
hair blowing in my eyes!” 

If a vagrant fancy made me wonder if so she blinded 
Miles, ’twas instantly banished, for ’twas no affair of 
mine. We were well under way now. The captains 
came in, and the talk was general until we reached 
our wharf, when Dorothy must be cloaked again, and 
her small feet, in their gray kid-furred boots, protected 
by some wonderful little goloshes. I heard the two 
captains, on leave-taking, offer to bring her curiosities 
from the further Ind or elsewhere, so quickly had she 
subjugated them. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


65 


’Twas but a few steps to where the Winters’ coach 
waited, and they drove me through the unpaved, nar- 
row old street entirely familiar, and not unlike some 
Continental towns I had lately visited, through Vendue 
Range, where I stopped at the ship-chandler’s, in case 
there should be anything from Woodhurst, and an ap- 
prentice ran out with my own last letter unsent; up 
Church Street, in sight of St. Michael’s spire, and in at 
the old Planters’ once more, the Winters driving on to 
their town residence. Too late that afternoon to set off 
for the plantation, I contented myself with having all 
in readiness for an early morning’s start, and was rest- 
ing at dusk before my fire when a note was brought 
me. I knew at sight from whom it came. Of deli- 
cate pale green tint, silver-edged, and sealed with wax 
of a darker green, and device of flying arrow and no 
motto. 

“ Dear Anthony,” it read, “to-night is the last as- 
sembly of the season at the St. Ursula Concert Room. 
You must surely come, and prove to Richard Northcote 
that he is not our only glass of elegant and foreign 
fashions. There are, besides, a score of fluttering belles 
eager to see the young traveller. I mean to insist on 
papa’s dancing to-night, and you will like to admire 
that. 

“ If these inducements fail, why, then, as Miles could 
not come down for the occasion, can you not take pity 
on disconsolate ‘Aphrodite’ (en grand toilette, this time, 
girdle and all), and act as his representative? 

“ Dorothy. 

“P.S. — If you could restrain your impatience for 


66 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


Woodhurst until next week, we are returning to Fair- 
view then, and could give you a seat in the coach. 

“ D. W.” 

I seemed so stupidly giddy and confused since I had 
landed that I kept the messenger waiting some time 
for an answer; and then must have muttered half- 
aloud: “A good sleep will best cure my head,” for he 
said “ Yes, sah!” with prompt acquiescence. Then I 
came to a decision, glanced once more at the perfumed 
note, dropped it behind the blazing logs, wrote and 
dispatched the answer, sending with it a parcel taken 
from one of my boxes and labelled Paris, and sought 
my couch not much later to have — God knows what 
visions come to me through the ivory gate! 

’Twas by the mail-coach I went up next day as far 
as the Hen and Chickens Tavern, and from there on 
a hired horse, leaving my boxes to be sent for. And 
the first friend I met was Colonel Homer Virgil Mil- 

ton, mounted on his mule Hurrah, looking but lit- 
tle older for these years, and attended by Primus on 
Squash, and talking at our avenue gate with a white 
man. 

“ M or bleu! corbieu! ventre-bleu!" he cried. “ ’Tis An- 
thony himself! My dear boy!” and would have em- 
braced me a la mode de Bretagne , I think, had his mule 
been willing. “ How glad I am to see you, and what 
a joyful surprise up at the house. Primus, do you see 
Mr. Anthony?” 

“ I berry glad fer see um, sah, an’ Squash am glad 

too. ” 

“That old donkey alive yet?” I cried. 

“He boun’ fer lib till yo’ git back, sah,” said Pri- 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 67 

mus, with a grin. “ Now de Lawd let he sarbent ’part 
in peace.” 

“You d — d irreverent scoundrel!” said the colonel, 
with a great show of wrath, “ is that the way you use 
Scripture ?” 

“ Ef de debbil kin use um, massa, why kain’t pore 
nigger?” This was probably too knotty a point in 
theology for the colonel. He took no notice, but 
cried: 

“Here I am again with my cursed forgetfulness! 
Anthony, this is Mr. Francis Doubleday. He is a 
new-comer since you were here last.” 

I shook hands with the sturdy, middle-aged overseer, 
whose plain but pleasant face impressed me favorably, 
as did his conversation when he walked beside my horse 
up the avenue on parting from the colonel. He stopped 
at a cottage, built since my departure, not far from the 
gate. A very blond young woman, handsome, some 
people thought her, but too thin, came out on the 
porch, and said, in a somewhat nasal voice: “You are 
late to-night, Francis,” and he said: “My wife, Mr. 
Ashley.” On hearing my name she opened wider her 
light-lashed eyes, but had nothing to say, apparently. 
Nor had I, for at this point my Castor and Pollux 
caught sight of me from the quarters, and between their 
incoherent joy on seeing me and the clamor of the 
others, I cannot tell how I found my way to the house. 
Of the reception there I will not speak. One need not 
be an absolute prodigal to have, on home-coming, his 
full share of welcoming embraces and joyous feasting. 
And I know our Miles would have thought no fatted 
calf on the place worthy of my consumption, and would 
have gladly adorned my finger with any rings, saving 


68 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


the one which Dorothy had given him. My dear 
father was as keen and alert as ever, with but a slight 
fall of snow on his locks; Cousin Betty a trifle stouter; 
Eleanor’s sweet face unchanged in her growth; but 
Miles — how that fellow had developed! Six feet and 
over, scarcely showing his height by reason of admir- 
able proportions, his handsome head, crowned with 
waves of fair hair, finely poised upon broad shoulders; 
large blue eyes beaming with the vigorous health of 
one who spent his time chiefly in the open air. 

We sat, after supper, around the library hearth, my 
mother’s picture looking down upon us as of yore; 
Nell and Cousin Betty close to me, and Castor and 
Pollux running in from the kitchen, on all sorts of fool- 
ish and flimsy pretexts, for a chance to stare at “ Mas’ 
Anthony.” 

“ And how do you find ille angulus terrarem ,” asked 
my father, with the well-remembered smile, which gave 
such winning softness to keen irregular features, “ after 
stately Oxford and the urbes et mores of older civiliza- 
tions?” 

“ It is home,” said I, with a look which satisfied 
him; “ quis inter hcec non obliviscitur malar am.” 

“Until the curas a?nor oppress you,” returned he, 
well pleased, “as they do Miles.” 

“Is Miles oppressed?” I asked. “I should never 
have guessed it.” 

“ Not while there are horses and hounds and deer to 
hunt,” said Miles, with a laugh. 

“And Richard Northcote to talk with,” supple- 
mented Cousin Betty, a little sharply, I thought. 

“ ’Tis natural enough that he should enjoy his talk,” 
spoke up little Eleanor. “ Excepting papa, and now 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 69 

Anthony, Richard Northcote is the most travelled and 
polished gentleman in the country-side.” 

“ Bravo, Nell!” I cried. “Always defend absent 
friends.” 

“Richard Northcote is well enough,” commented my 
father indifferently, “but I do not think his long stay 
in France did him any good. Did you see Mile. Mars 
in Paris, Anthony? She will be well past her zenith 
now, but always fine. And of course you young fel- 
lows missed nothing at Covent Garden or the Surrey 
or Haymarket?” 

“There was Charles Kemble, you know,” said I sug- 
gestively, “and Ellen Tree, and Mathews and Mac- 
ready, not to speak of Catalina and Ellsler. ” 

“Ah! you should have seen John Philip Kemble, 

! and the glorious Siddons, and the great Cooke, and 
best of all, the divine Mrs. Jordan! To think of her 
makes one feel but twenty years again. Such eyes! 
Such a shape, and voice, and laugh! ’twas grace and 
joy incarnate! Ah, villain!” — seeing the trap into 
which he had fallen — “ well, then, yes. The univer- 
sity men ran off to go to the play in my time, too. 
But there were giants on the tragic stage in those days, 
and for the very Muse of Comedy herself, you must 
[ have seen Jordan as Polly Peachum in the ‘Beggar’s 
Opera. ’ ” 

In such simple talk and enjoyment our evening fled, 
and we were loath to separate when the time came for 
1 us to take our bedroom candlesticks from the hall- 
: table and make our way up the winding stairs — not, 
however, until I had raised the lid of Cousin Betty’s 
old harpsichord, with its two banks of yellow keys, and 
begged her to sing for me once more her favorite, 


70 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


Wamba’s “ Anne-Marie, Love, Day is Begun.” She 
protested that her singing days were over, which, per- 
haps, they were; but none the less was she pleased 
when I said I could wait to hear Nell’s proficiency on 
the grand piano and Clementi harp I had brought over 
with me, but that nobody could sing “ Anne-Marie, 
Love,” like herself. And the kind soul came up after- 
ward all out of breath to give me an extra kiss in 
return for my compliments. 

’Twas as though I had never been away when I found 
myself in my old room with its blazing fire and dimity 
curtains, and nothing changed; the carven evangelists 
among the Cupids on the mahogany head-board, ready, 
as of old, to watch over slumbers not quite so inno- 
cent and light-hearted as then, I fear. Miles now 
occupied an adjoining room, but he came in in his 
shirt-sleeves as soon as Castor and Pollux had left us; 
and, I thought again, he was a goodly sight to see. 

“ ’Tis a great thing to have you back again, dear 
old boy,” he said with an affectionate hand on my 
shoulder, “though I’m afraid ’twill be dull for you 
after London and Paris. But there are some amuse- 
ments, you know, and Richard Northcote — you remem- 
ber how clever Dick always was — and now, with his 
talk of life abroad, you will find him amazing good 
company.” 

“Northcote is clever enough, Miles,” said I, “but I 
must tell you there were some queer stories afloat about 
him in Paris; and I wouldn’t be too intimate or play 
cards with him.” 

“Oh,” cried Miles, flushing uneasily, “if his char- 
acter is good enough for him to be received, there is 
no more to be said. And an old neighbor, too! He 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


71 


goes everywhere. He offended the colonel last week, 
though,” breaking into a great laugh at the remem- 
brance. 

“ How was that ?” 

“It appears that some of Dick’s jokes — funny ones, 
too, though I told him ’twas not becoming to make 
them about an old man — came to his ears, and then he 
overheard some foolish talk of Dick’s, caught from 
the young bucks in New York, about 4 Washington on a 
white horse and the British streaking it ’ — and the 
colonel won’t stand any jokes about Washington, you 
know, and thought ’twas his duty to challenge him. 
And he dressed himself in those same old regimentals 
and hunted up Northcote on the race-course, but it 
fell through. 4 1 went on purpose to insult him, sir,’ 
he told my father, ‘but he was so d — d polite I 
couldn’t.’ Northcote knew, you see, how ridiculous 
’twould make him to fight a man as old as his grand- 
father.” 

“Then if he wouldn’t ‘fight like a Christian and a 
gentleman, ’ ” said I, recalling the Englishman’s famous 
complaint about Marion, “he might, at least, refrain 
from impertinence. But do you know, Miles, who 
’twas came to meet me, with her father, down in 
Charleston?” and his handsome face flushed once more, 
this time with delight. And forgetting all else, he 
broke out into incoherence: “Was it Dorothy? And 
is she not the most beautiful, and the sweetest, and 
the loveliest, and the kindest?” and similar adjectives, 
with which he kept me awake until near morning, to 
which I listened, not all-attentive, my eyes noting the 
various familiar objects about the wide room; the pol- 
ished wood and brass shining in the light of blazing 


72 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


logs; the same quaint old engraving between the win- 
dows of the Holy Family flying into Egypt in a gon- 
dola drawn by swans; the identical book, “Affection’s 
Gift,” on the table, presented to me by Nell on my 
tenth birthday, with an inscription in her childish 
scrawl — 

“ Take it, ’tis a gift of love, 

That seeks thy good aloan, 

Keep it for the giver’s sake, 

And rede it, for thine own ” — 

and further decorated, as ’twas Miles’ custom and mine 
to do at that period, by a rude effigy of a gallows and 
a solemn warning to our “ honest friends” not to steal 
this book. A warning, by the way, more needed in 
these days, when wholesale literary pirates are an influ- 
ential and prosperous class in most communities. 


CHAPTER VII. 


“You will wish to go to work at once, Anthony/* 
said my father, briefly and to the point next morning. 
“Buzzard’s Roost*’ — my mother’s place — “became 
yours last year. Most of it, as you know, is now a tur- 
pentine farm, and your own negroes have been trained 
there. Francis Doubleday is very efficient, and can 
tell you all you may need to know at first of either 
cotton or turpentine. He leaves but little for Miles 
to do on this place; and the boy’s medical course is 
scarcely of use, the hands fortunately keeping healthy. 
I am afraid that ingenuous puer has too much leisure 
for his own good, especially since your Cousin Betty 
has taken to ordering Glauber’s salts by the barrel and 
Flugger’s pills by the cart-load. But he is a brave, 
honest lad, and good to look at, is he not, Anthony ?” 
brightening with fatherly pride, as Miles, riding past 
outside, touched his hat and smiled. “As for you, my 
boy, I thought your home-coming would have been my 
signal to retire to my books here and rely on your con- 
genial companionship for my chief pleasure ” 

“At your age, sir!” I cried. “Why, you are but a 
young man yet!” 

“ Est tempus abire ,” he said, with something of 
weariness. “ I have a fancy that I shall not live to be 
very old, and ’tis but a brief tedious scene at most and 
best. However, my term in Washington is not yet 

73 


74 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


expired, and ’tis scarcely a fit time to withdraw, with 
all this nullification excitement on hand. You will 
meet Mr. Calhoun, by the way, at the Overstreets’ 
next week. You know that I am not entirely in ac- 
cord with him on this question; but you shall study 
the matter for yourself. I am mistaken in you,” look- 
ing at me keenly, “ if you do not place brains or sword- 
arm, or both, at your country’s service, sooner or later. 
In the mean time, ’tis well to become acquainted with 
one’s own region and people.” 

Eleanor was waiting to waylay me by the great 
clock in the hall, and ran up in a pretty flutter of ex- 
citement. 

“ O Anthony, did you know that Harriet Over- 
street was to be married next week to Henry Cope- 
land, and you and Miles and Richard Northcote and 
Charlotte Overstreet and Dorothy and I are to be 
bridesmaids and groomsmen; and I have a new silver 
muslin gown, and have worked a satin cravat for you, 
and Mr. Calhoun will be there!” 

“You shall tell me all about it when I come in,” 
said I, with my arm around her as she paused, out of 
breath — “if Miles is a bridesmaid and Charlotte a 
groomsman, and whether ’tis you or I will wear the 
muslin gown.” 

“ How do you like Francis and Mrs. Doubleday?” 
asked Cousin Betty, after I had fallen for some time 
into the daily routine of riding over Todd’s Creek and 
busying myself at Buzzard’s Roost. 

“The husband very much, indeed,” I replied. “The 
wife I have only seen a few times. She seems to have 
a great quantity of blond hair, but with it a trick of 
keeping her eyes lowered, not always pleasant.” 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


75 


“She is rather pretty. You think so, Miles?” 

“ I don’t know, ” said he indifferently. “ I’ve scarcely 
noticed. Too thin, I think.” 

“ Dorothy is coming to-morrow,” sly Nell put in. 

“Iam sorry for Mrs. Doubleday,” went on Cousin 
Betty. “ Doubleday is the best of husbands, but vastly 
too old for her and too absorbed in his work. She was 
a factory girl when he married her and accustomed to a 
crowd of her associates about her, and must be lonely 
at the cottage. But she takes long walks and that 
helps pass her time.” 

“Does she not dress a little showily for her place 
and means?” I hinted; “ surely cotton gowns suit bet- 
ter than silk for country wea$. ” 

“Those are things of mine or Mrs. Northcote’s, per- 
haps,” said good Cousin Betty, indulgent. “She is 
young, you know, and not always acquainted with what 
is suitable. I do what I can for her in the way of help 
and advice; and Mrs. Northcote — who- is always ail- 
ing now, Anthony, a sad invalid since her husband’s 
death — has her with her very often, and is most kind.” 

Pollux, who came in next day with news of a fox 
in Mosquito Bottom, was deeply disappointed at “ Mas’ 
Miles’ ” lack of interest. I tried to make up to him 
by doubling my own. But my brother’s restless idle- 
ness after dinner affected me to that extent that at 
last I called out: “For Heaven’s sake, Miles, stop 
stalking about the piazza like an impatient lion! Why 
not take your horse and go as far as the tavern to meet 
the Winters?” 

“Yes, I was thinking of that,” simply, “but ’tis two 
hours too soon. Thank you, Anthony, I will go at 
once.” 


;6 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


I met him at dusk when I was riding in myself 
from the lower plantation, turning into the avenue, 
with something of a cloud on his frank features. 

“ My horse has cast a shoe ” he commenced, and 

then broke off: “I do think Dick Northcote might 
have let me have his place with them in the coach 
and offered to ride my horse. But he is so spoiled, 
with his confounded French effeminacy. ” 

“ Perhaps he didn’t have on his riding-boots, ” said I, 
remembering our childish passage-at-arms. 

“ I suppose he fancied himself tired from a short 
day’s journey,” said literal Miles. “Dorothy, poor 
girl, could not help showing her fatigue, so I only 
stopped a few moments the house.” 

But he was his own sunny self again when a little 
perfumed, silver-edged note, the seal an arrow, was 
brought him in the morning; and he rode off at once 
and we saw him no more that day. Nell’s piano and harp 
had now been placed in position in the long parlor. 
Caesar had just lighted all the candles in the evening, 
when we all went in to see them; and I had just 
picked up the snuffer-tray, to snuff a long-wicked one, 
before I placed it on the piano-bracket, when the hall 
door opened and I heard, among other voices, a sil- 
very peal of laughter which was unmistakable. I fin- 
ished snuffing that candle and another which needed 
it while Caesar threw open the parlor doors; then 
turned to see Dorothy’s lissome figure advancing down 
the room, in riding-hat and plumes, holding her long 
habit skirt thrown daintily over her arm. 

“ Since nobody — worth speaking of ” — with a Par- 
thian glance over her shoulder — “ has been to see me 
to-day,” she cried, “I have been forced to come over 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


77 


myself and beg for a cup of tea, Miss Betty. Mr. 
Ashley — Colonel Milton, how glad I am to see you 
all! and dear Eleanor, ” whom she embraced. The 
elder men looked at her with visible admiration; my 
father kissing, with old-fashioned grace, the hand from 
which she had drawn her gauntlet; the colonel, with 
a magnificent bow, calling out, “ Foi de Chevalier! c' est 
Diane elle-meme. ” 

‘‘You see, Mr. Anthony Ashley,” she said, looking 
at me archly, “ ’ tis not only fine young beaux from 
foreign parts who compare poor me to the Olympian 
goddesses.” One of the men following her — Miles 
was the other — bestowed on me a keen glance upon 
this before coming forward to shake hands. ’Twas 
Richard Northcote, though I had not recognized him 
at first. Of medium height, he was much thinner 
than as a boy, and darker; wearing a mustache, not 
common at that time among civilians, to partly hide, 
perhaps, a scar obtained in some duel which, crossing 
his mouth, might, unconcealed, have given an unpleas- 
ant expression. The frequent smile was somewhat 
marred by an habitual slight frown between his heavy 
brows; but his manner was most polished, even toward 
the colonel, and that of a man of the world. 

“Will you come to my room, Dorothy,” said Nell 
shyly, “to arrange your dress?” 

“Yes, dear, and for a little of your renovating milk 
of roses,” in a stage-whisper, with a laughing back- 
ward look as she went off, her protecting arm about 
Nell’s slighter figure. 

“I am sure,” cried Cousin Betty indignantly, “no 
two girls in the country have less need of renovation — 
if that means rouge — and Dorothy with her bloom!” 

6 


73 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“ Excellently well done,” said Northcote, “and God 
did all.” Miles looked slightly uneasy at the subject 
of conversation, and I changed it. 

“And have all you gentlemen,” asked Dorothy at 
the supper-table, “ fine new suits to grace Harriet 
Overstreet’s wedding? She means it to be a grand 
affair, she tells me.” 

“You know my best suit, Dorothy,” said Miles, 
with simplicity. “I bought it of Jehu Jones, London 
tailor, on the corner of Church Street and Longitude 
Lane, three years ago. ’Tis as good to-day.” 

“Oh! you, Miles! the worse you are dressed the 
handsomer you look!” with a dubious and impatient 
graciousness, of which he saw only the better part. 
“But I know Mr. Northcote’s affection for ‘articles de 
Paris,’ and a stranger like Anthony has, doubtless, 
the newest and finest modes in ruffles.” 

“Anthony’s new ruffles are vastly genteel and taste- 
ful,” said Cousin Betty over the silver urn, with an 
emphatic nod, which set her mob-cap in a flutter. 

“ Mille tomierres ! madam,” cried the colonel; “even 
in the matter of clothes, I think old friends the best. 
I would not change my old Continental uniform for 
any of these young bucks’ coats pinched in at the 
waist, and ruffles so stiff and stocks so high that they 
must carry their noses up in the air, like a dog point- 
ing at partridges! And then their legs ” 

“You must admit,” said my father pacifically, “that 
wearing their own hair becomingly curled and brushed 
is an improvement on the hair powder of my time 
and the wigs of yours.” 

The colonel and Cousin Betty would both have pro- 
tested, but Northcote remarking: “’Tis a question de 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 79 

gustibus” asked: “Are you first bridesmaid, Miss 
Winter ?” 

“Yes, I am/’ she replied, “but had much of an incli- 
nation to be none at all when I found I was to stand 
next that pert Charlotte Overstreet. I am at odds 
with her. Will you believe, Mr. Ashley,” loftily, “ that 
when I told her, quite gently, that the first English set- 
tlers here, and the Overstreets among them, were, it is 
a matter of history, a godless lot, she quite lost her 
temper, and said they were better, socially at least, 
than the Huguenot refugees; and pretends to know 
that my great-grandfather, Pierre Pitou, was but a car- 
penter, turned fiddler, who taught dancing to the Ind- 
ians!” 

“And what did you say?” asked my father, amused. 

“ I told her ’twas not so. And if it were, ’twas all 
the finer to take any means to earn his bread and es- 
cape persecution!” 

“ His daughter married the son of one of those cav- 
alier roysterers, Dorothy,” said my father quietly; 
“and as for the persecuting spirit, they all brought it 
over to this free country with other importations. 
’Twas a feature of the age. The English settlers here 
were mostly landless resolutes, sharked up, here and 
there, for the plantations, with a few exceptions, who 
were of noble race” — glancing at the Landgrave’s pic- 
ture — “and having little religion themselves, they re- 
sented it in others and made the thrifty middle-class 
French refugees feel their resentment in various tor- 
menting restrictions and civil disabilities. That same 
great-grandfather of yours, Dorothy, was turned out 
of the Unsteady Assembly as a dissenter, when his gra- 
cious majesty was signing himself ‘Head of the Church 


8o 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


and Defender of the Faith * in prayer-books compiled 
expressly for the Carolina colony. And so late as my 
own youth, colonel, one of the pioneers of Methodism 
in Charleston was held under a pump in bitter cold 
weather by a furious mob; from which, being a con- 
sumptive, he died. I well remember what a fine 
amusement ’twas thought for a party of well-dressed 
young idlers to smash the windows in their little meet- 
ing-house. ’Tis my memories of that time, perhaps,” 
smiling, “which make me so averse to church-going.” 

“ ’Twas not a religion known in my youth,” gravely 
replied the colonel, in whose military career religion 
of any kind had been, by his own showing, a rare lux- 
ury. “ Nor do I think it a becoming one for an officer 
and a gentleman, but, non de Dieu ! ’twas cursed in- 
human to abuse an invalid.” 

“The Winters are as well descended, I hope, as the 
Overstreets,” cried Dorothy, ignoring these trifling 
polemical points, as she arose putting aside a golden- 
brown curl presumptuously straying across her fair 
brow. 

“Both families are well enough,” muttered my 
father a little impatiently. Finding me next him, “But 
for Heaven’s sake, Anthony, order cards and candles 
in the library. Here come Mr. and Mrs. Winter, and 
we will not get him started on genealogy. ’Tis his 
hobby, and nothing is so tiresome as to be forced to 
climb another man’s family tree. There are only a 
few families in this country whose ancestors are 
worth speaking of,” with another look at the Land- 
grave’s portrait. ’Twas a very fine one, painted by Sir 
Peter Lely, which had crossed the seas, and bore our 
coat of arms painted in the left-hand corner. My 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


8l 


father — the wisest of men have their failings — ordered 
the same on such family portraits as had been painted 
in his time. I have long since discontinued its use, 
thinking such matters unsuited to republican sim- 
plicity. 

The whist-players were soon busy in the library, 
Cousin Betty fluttering in and out between the rooms, 
whose open doors permitted a view from one to the 
others. 

“Anthony/' said Dorothy in her clear, liquid tones, 
standing under the glistening chandelier in the parlor, 
“you are still a stranger to the wonderful proficiency 
gained by Nell and me under the accomplished Mrs. 
Hamilton, who was a mistress of deportment and all 
the graces. We must give you proof. A courtesy 
should come first. I was, I assure you, Monsieur 
Fayolle’s best pupil. Now, Eleanor, right foot out, 

one, two, three — do not stand there laughing ” and 

she picked up the narrow prune silk skirt she had worn 
under her habit, and with the prettiest foot in the 
world extended swept me a charming courtesy and 
gravely said: “Mr. Anthony Ashley, you are welcome 
to your native country after long absence!” Then 
with an inimitable change of tone: “Would you like 
to hear me play the flageolet?” Miles laughed, 
delighted that she should amuse me. Northcote, to 
my surprise, seemed to wear a frown. 

“You have not brought your flageolet!” exclaimed 
Cousin Betty, coming in for a moment; “ ’tis most 
ungenteel and unsuitable for a young lady. There 
are the new harp and piano.” 

“I like my flageolet best and choose to play it,” she 
said, in what struck me as an unbecoming tone to an 


82 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


elder woman. Perhaps she noticed my gravity, but 
only so far as to go up to Cousin Betty and with | 
coaxing arts to make her smile before she left the 
room. Then she took out from the long satin reticule 
she wore on her arm an ivory inlaid flageolet, which 
she screwed together and tried, with much delightful 
by-play. 

“ Now, Nell,” motioning her to the open piano, 
“take care of the candles! Now try ‘Flow On, Thou 
Shining River,’” and Nell accompanying her, she 
played, one foot on a cushion, her rosy lips to the 
flageolet, that pretty melody. ’Twas all charming 
enough in the candle-light. 

“ You look,” said uncompromising Miles, “like the 
musical angels in the old pictures.” 

“But whate’er you do still betters doing,” amended 
Northcote, the sneering under-tone in his frequent 
compliments to women audible to me. I have often 
wondered if they did not hear it and know it to indi- 
cate indifference to all but physical charms in them. 
Dorothy’s look toward him I could not see, her head 
being turned away, but his gaze was curiously intent 
though swift. 

“And how do you like my flageolet, Sir Knight of 
the Rueful Countenance?” 

“ I like the piano better,” said I briefly. It did not 
seem fitting that Miles’ betrothed should give coquet- 
tish glances to a man of Richard Northcote’s reputa- 
tion. Still, she was but a girl; and those stories 
were, perhaps, exaggerated, and he was Miles’ friend. 

“ Do you not sing, Dorothy ?” I asked more gently. 

“Sometimes; not alone to-night; but I will try a 
duo with Nell,” and Eleanor’s soprano and her pure 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 83 

contralto were joined in “ I Know a Bank Whereon the 
Wild Thyme” and “Araby’s Daughter.” 

“Give us ‘He That Loves a Rosy Cheek!’ ” called 
my father from the card-table, and in this round and 
another, “Come, Lads and Lassies,” my baritone and 
Miles’ occasional deep bass tones were available. 
Then Cousin Betty, being a fiery Jacobite, as were 
all readers of Scott, called for“Wha’ll be King but 
Charlie ” and “ Bonnets of Blue.” 

Richard Northcote, who had taken no part in this 
singing, though invited, sat down to the piano when 
Nell arose, and then he gave me, at least, a genuine 
surprise. Playing his own accompaniment by ear, his 
tenor voice arose, sweet, strong, rich, perfect. I invol- 
untarily drew near, and while he sang all suspicion or 
prejudice vanished. It seemed impossible that a man 
who sang like that could think or act unworthily. He 
sang “The Death That Lies in Julia’s Eyes,” a French 
chansonnette, and after striking a chord or two hesi- 
tantly and after another swift glance at Dorothy, he 
ended with “Shall I, Wasting in Despair.” After 
this, knowing the ways of the house, he went himself 
into the dining-room for a glass of water, and was gone 
several moments. 

“ Did you know that Tom Broadacre was coming 
from Edisto to be a groomsman, Nell ?” asked Dorothy. 

“He will stand with you, perhaps.” 

“I hope he will not trip me up, then,” said Nell, 
laughing, “ as he invariably does when we dance to- 
gether. ” 

I saw no sign in my little sister’s fresh, smiling face 
that her old-time admirer had made any progress with 
her, but then she was, perhaps, watching Dick North- 


8 4 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


cote’s return to the room. The chaise and saddle- 
horses were already in front, the card-party having 
finished their game, and Dorothy went up for her hat 
and habit. She must have come down very quickly, for 
entering the dining-room, in my turn, for water, I 
found her there, just by the mantel. 

“This portrait,” she said hurriedly, without looking 
at me, “might easily be taken for you in court-dress 
and sword, Anthony. When you were away” — with a 
constrained smile — “ I used to say good-night to the 
Landgrave for you, sometimes.” 

“ It was very friendly in you, Dorothy, but not half 
so pleasant for me as to stand here and answer for 
myself.” I was leaning with my elbow on the low 
wooden mantel and looking down into the lovely face 
shaded by the dark pl'umes. Was it my fancy that 
the round cheek had lost something of its brilliant 
coloring within the last few moments? My hand was 
touching the varnished frame of the picture, and by an 
idle chance I let it fall behind it. Stuck in a fasten- 
ing of the canvas, close to the edge, was a paper 
which I drew out, surprised. 

“Why, it is a note,” I said, “and addressed to you! 
Even Miles, I find, likes a little romantic mystery.” 

“He has more romance than you think,” she an- 
swered, quickly slipping the note within her reticule. 

But that was not Miles’ handwriting. Not even the 
curas amor my father talked of could alter it so much. 
And ’twas like an echo of my own misgivings when I 
heard the colonel’s loud voice quote to my father, 
over his good-night pipe in the library : “ ‘Sir Oliver, 

this is a d — d wicked world and the fewer we trust 
the better!’ ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


For several days before the wedding we saw but little 
of either Eleanor or Dorothy, they in their capacity 
of bridesmaids spending most of their time at the 
house of the bride-elect. ’Twas not,, in those days, 
easy or customary to transport a caterer and his men 
from a neighboring city, so that the lighter, more 
ornamental preparations for the feast fell to the share 
of the bridesmaids, and were looked upon as a labor of 
love. Our Nell's skill in the confection of cakes, 
jellies, custards, and cordials for such occasions had 
called forth many a compliment, which made Cousin 
Betty, her teacher, bridle with pride. As for Dorothy, 
I had heard that she stood by, for the most part, and 
cheered the others on, which was also useful in its 
way. 

I was a little late, coming in from the turpentine 
farm, the afternoon of the festal day, having sent for 
Doubleday to have his advice about some matters, and 
we were slowly returning when, fording Todd’s Creek, 
we met the Copelands’ double chaise, with the groom, 
his brother, and Tom Broadacre, who had just arrived. 

“You will be late!” they cried. 

“You are too early!” I retorted, “but that is easily 
understood,” smiling at the groom. 

“If Miles and you are too busy to go over at once, 
I can easily light and escort Miss Sherwood and Miss 
Nell,” said Tom ingenuously. 

85 


86 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


This disinterested offer declined with thanks, we 
parted, the overseer and I leaping our farthest fence 
and striking across fields as a short cut. We met Caesar 
and a few of our other negoes going to the Overstreets’ 
place, in the same way, and carrying fiddles and bones. 

“We’s de band, Mas’ Anthony, fer de weddin’,” 
they shouted, in jovial chorus. 

“ I could find it in me, sometimes,” said Doubleday, 
with a half-sigh of fatigue, “to envy those fellows. 
They are so entirely free from responsibility. ’Tis not 
only sufficient for the day is the evil and the good, 
with them, but sufficient for the moment. Hear them 
laugh !” 

“Perhaps you take life too seriously,” I suggested, 
glancing aside at his rugged face, unduly care-worn 
for his years. “ I hope you have not too much to do.” 

“ Not at all. The plantations are large, but I found 
them in good order. The chief trouble is to get a 
proper amount of work out of the hands. Your father 
tells me to be moderately strict, but means me to be 
indulgent, I think.” 

“The house-servants are spoiled, I know,” said I, 
with a smile, thinking how little Castor had to do. 

“ They certainly are,” agreed the overseer, “but that 
is not my business. I couldn’t help laughing when I 
went up to the house to speak to your father this 
morning, and found half a dozen pickaninnies asleep 
on the bench in the lower hall. ‘What are you all 
doing here?’ I asked. ‘We’s waitin’ fer see ef Mis’ 
Betty doan’ want us,’ they answered, all together. 
Still, they’re a contented, good-natured lot as ever I’ve 
had charge of, and that’s a good deal. I hear ’tis not 
so at Oaklands ” — lowering his voice — “since young 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


87 


Mr. Northcote has been master. Hard work, prompt 
punishment, and few holidays. The mulatto he has 
put in charge — capable enough, too — is a cruel ras- 
cal, and glad to pay off scores on his fellow-slaves. 
Mr. Northcote himself is away much of his time. His 
mother’s sickness makes the place dull, and all he 
cares for is that so much money shall be raised from 
the crops, being in debt to his factors. There was not 
a dollar of debt on the place when he took it; but 
then, in his father’s day, there was no gambling at the 
tavern in winter, or Saratoga Springs in summer, or 
other imported ways from Paris.” 

“You need not believe all the gossip you hear, Mr. 
Doubleday,” said I, somewhat gravely, not being 
| altogether pleased at this sort of communication about 
an acquaintance from a subordinate. 

“No, now, Mr. Anthony,” he replied, with sturdy 
persistence, “ ’tis not gossip. And where Mr. Miles 
and yourself,” with an awkward attempt at finesse , 
“are so intimate, you should know what is said.” 
With which he dismounted at his porch, where Mrs. 
Doubleday seldom was to meet him now, possibly 
because his hours were uncertain. 

The colonel, in his well-remembered regimentals — a 
world too wide for him now — was with my father, who 
looked well in full dress, having just an old-fashioned 
touch about it. Jupiter was with them in the library, 
trying to convince my father that the grays were the 
proper horses to take us over to the Overstreets’ and not 
the bays, which the latter mildly but firmly requested. 
At last the old coachman’s real reason came out. 

“An’ how I gwine fiddle fit fer a weddin’ wid dem 
frisky bays a-pullin’ my wrists offen me fer tree mile?” 


88 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“You’re late, my boy,” called my father, when 
Jupiter had retired grumbling. “The others are 
nearly ready, and you must hurry. The colonel and I 
— odorati canos capillos rosa — will while away our time 
of waiting with a pinch of Maccabaw,” holding out his 
enamelled box to the colonel’s ready fingers. 

I hurried to my room, where Castor had all prepared 
for me, and with his aid was soon ready. 

“Mas* Anthony,” he said persuasively, as I was 
descending, “all de niggers dat kin fiddle done gone 
to Mas’ Overstreet’s ’ceppin’ Pollux an’ me; an’ ’tis 
too late fer walk. Kin we hab two o’ de mules?” 

“Oh, I suppose so,” hastily, and ran down to find 
the rest of the party assembled. Miles handsome 
as always, even in the suit from “Jehu Jones, Lon- 
don tailor at the corner of Church Street and Longi- 
tude Lane.” Cousin Betty in rustling brocade, and 
Eleanor, sylph-like, in what she told me was a “silver 
Indian gauze, spangled,” with sarsnet ribbons, and little 
white slippers, “spangled” too, whatever that may be. 
It sounds rather queer, though it looked nice enough. 

“And oh, dear Anthony !” she cried, running up to 
me, “the lace tucker and coral beads and Limerick 
gloves all go with my dress so beautifully!” 

“Yes, Anthony,” said Cousin Betty, fingering her 
cameos, “ I must allow that you have a vastly genteel 
and pretty taste in dress.” 

“We could better judge of that, Betty,” said my fa- 
ther, “ if you would let me see the ‘curled Anthony,’ ” 
putting on his glasses to look at me, which I bore as 
well as I could. “Very well, indeed, Anthony; though 
John Wharton* Ashley’s period had advantages in 
dress over ours. ” 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


89 


“ The trousers are tighter than we’ve worn ’em here,” 
said Miles critically, “and ruffles wider, and white 
satin stock higher. But those ruby studs are pretty, 
old fellow.” 

“ In short,” cried Eleanor playfully, “ our travelled 
youth is an exquisite of the first water and a beau 
indeed !” 

“Jehu Jones does very well, too, ” said Miles con- 
tentedly. “ I wonder why Dorothy need have given 
me this book last night,” taking a little pamphlet 
from an inner pocket. 

“ Let me see, ” said I. “ ‘ The Art of Tying the Cravat 
in Sixteen Lessons. Thirty-two Styles. By Le Blanc. 
Motto, “ Nothing is more laudable than an inquiry 
after truth.” Addison!’” 

“ I wonder, too, why she should have given it to 
you!” cried Cousin Betty resentfully. “She thinks 
too much of such matters.” 

“My dear Betty!” from my father indulgently, 
“ ’tis only natural at her age. They are in the spring- 
time of life, when nunc decet impedire nitidum caput aut 
viridi myrto aut flore , which only means that ’tis better 
to be an exquisite than a sloven when one is young, 
or old either, provided that it does not interfere with 
work.” 

“Or fighting,” added the colonel, coming in from 
the piazza, where he had been airing his regimentals 
after a pipe. 

The distant sound of fiddle-tuning and joyous buzz 
of festivity met us at the Overstreets’. And from 
hospitable lights streaming from piazzas and windows 
into the night, and excited running in and out of 
ladies’ maids and other servants, we knew that we were 


9 ° 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


none too soon. In fact, my brother, Nell, and I were 
needed at once by our respective partners; and found 
ourselves presently standing in procession before the 
closed folding-doors. These being thrown open by 
the butler, we moved forward, after the white figure of 
the bride and the less gracefully happy one of .the 
groom, until we faced the minister standing with his 
back to a long mirror, which reflected glittering chan- 
deliers with innumerable wax candles and the pretty 
evergreen decorations, as well as the bridal party. 

The few words uttered which make such a difference 
in two lives, and Jupiter and the other fiddlers, in an 
improvised gallery at the end of the long parlors, 
struck up gayly “ A Health to the Bride,” while con- 
gratulations were being offered. Then waiters with 
various refreshments made their appearance, and the 
tune changed to “ Haste to the Wedding,” and dancing 
began. 

’Twas Dorothy’s place as first bridesmaid to dance 
with the groom, and Miles’ privilege to lead out 
the bride. My partner was the obnoxious Charlotte 
Overstreet of Dorothy’s story, a plain but sensible girl, 
who, moreover, danced well, as the first contra-dance 
proved. 

I was still talking to her when the cotillon be- 
gan, so claimed that, too, and found myself opposite 
Miles and Dorothy Winter. The latter I had caught 
a dazzling glimpse of when I entered, but not since; 
and now could scarce withdraw my eyes, like many 
others that I noticed. There was a buzz of admira- 
tion about her, of which she appeared unconscious. If 
she was beautiful in every-day attire, she was divinely 
radiant with her white neck and arms showing from 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


9 1 


the filmy short-waisted gown, whose clinging narrow 
folds displayed her perfect form and grace; her shining 
hair drawn high on her small head into a wavy knot, 
fastened with a gold comb, from which escaped two 
or three silky tendrils. ’Twas Aphrodite en grande 
toilette, as she had jestingly written. “ A beautiful 
creature,” said an old gentleman on his way to the 
card-room. “ A handsome couple,” amended his com- 
panion. “ They are like the fairy prince and princess 
in a story.” She stepped gliding through the dance 
as light as air, and touched my hand a score of times, 
but spoke no word beyond her first salute. Nor did I, 
devoting myself to my partner. 

I asked the latter, during an interval, who was the 
gentleman in the next room, centre of an interested 
group, whose strong features, with hair thick and 
brushed back, impressed me even at that distance. 

“You do not know Mr. Calhoun!” she exclaimed. 
“Ah, I forgot, you have been away some time. Your 
father is with him, I see. He is the most delightful 
company. You must be introduced.” Which she 
kindly undertook herself when that dance ended. The 
smile that he gave me, after the first long look from 
wonderful eyes under those shaggy eyebrows, was in- 
toxicating flattery to a young man. 

“ The son of your father must be a most welcome 
acquaintance,” said he, still holding my hand. “I 
can admire a brave volunteer, even when I differ 
from him in views. And I can wish his son nothing 
better than to resemble him in field or forum, to 
either or both of which, I predict, you will find your 
way also sooner or later, though now si te digna manet 
divini gloria ruris. You will find, as time goes on, that 


92 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


your life escapes, in a measure, from your own control, 
and seems to work independently, or even in defiance, 
of you. The Sabine farm and the sage’s life are the 
happiest lot, doubtless; and felixqui potuit rerum cognos- 
ces causas , but I hope you will remember that the great 
heart of our country, to beat strongly and firmly, needs 
a constant infusion of young blood.” We passed to 
topics of general interest, in which he held me, with 
others, fascinated, being a most eloquent talker. 

When next I saw Dorothy a lively reel had just 
struck up, and the crowd of gallants about her was 
dispersing in search of other partners, after vainly 
inviting her. I caught a glance from her star-like eyes 
as I approached. 

“ I don’t care for the reel,” she said to Miles, stand- 
ing beside her chair holding her gold-embroidered reti- 
cule, in the happy content her proximity induced on 
him. “ ’Tis too fatiguing.” 

“ ’Twas my dance,” Northcote put in quietly. 

“Well, Mr. Anthony Ashley,” she said, not noticing, 
“ I am pleased to see you at last. Aphrodite’s girdle 
is not so powerful as you pretend, or its charms 
would have drawn you away from even a great states- 
man.” 

Miles, who had caught but one word of this, said: 

“ Dorothy will not tell me who is the fairy god- 
father that she vows gave her the new belt-clasp and 
ornament,” alluding to a vinaigrette that she wore 
hanging at her girdle, in dull gold, with her initials 
in sapphires set low. 

I was vexed that she should make a mystery to 
Miles of such a small matter, and said immediately: 
“Why, tis but a trifle that I brought her from Paris.” 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


93 


His kind face cleared at once, and he laid his hand 
on my shoulder. “ My dear good fellow, ’twas like 
your thoughtfulness. Of course, of course! When 
you were shopping for Nell, of course,” and he went 
off to help form a set. 

Northcote again offered his arm. “Thank you,” 
she said, “ I believe I will get Anthony to take me for 
a stroll on the piazza. ’Tis warm in-doors.” 

“ And my dance ?” he persisted, the frown overpower 
ing the smile. 

“I have said I did not^care for the reel,” she replied 
indifferently. 

He turned as if to address me, when she interposed 
hastily, and a few hurried words were interchanged so 
low that I heard only the last, “ ’Tis a promise, then,” 
and “the Boulanger” and “home afterward.” He 
retired with a low bow and I led her out on the 
piazza. ’Twas a clear frosty night, with a nipping 
and an eager air, for which her dress was unsuitable, as 
a woman’s dress mostly is. 

“You cannot stay out here, after dancing, too, with- 
out a warm wrap,” I said. 

“Miles never says ‘cannot’ to me,” was all she 
deigned in reply, looking up at the stars. 

“Anthony does,” I replied, and calling one of the 
maids sent her for a wrap, and when ’twas brought 
folded it around her unresisting figure. 

“Now that my life is safe,” she said coolly, “we 
may take a turn, perhaps,” and laying her slim hand 
on my arm, commenced pacing up and down the least- 
frequented end of the great piazza, dotted elsewhere by 
numerous other couples. We could hear the gay 
music of the reel in bursts through the closed windows, 
7 


94 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


and the rhythmic tread of the dancers’ feet, led by 
Miles himself ; and passing sometimes the stream of 
light from each casement, I could just see a pair of 
lustrous eyes laughing up at mine. 

“ ’Tis cruel of me,” began her silvery tones, “to 
keep you from your charmer. Charlotte Overstreet 
has made a rare conquest and a speedy one. ’Tis a 
novelty, too, for her.” 

“ Miss Overstreet is a young lady of superior intelli- 
gence and good sense,” I pronounced, somewhat for- 
mally. 

“Which I will wager my lovely clasp and vinai- 
grette you told her,” she laughed low and a little 
maliciously. “Compliments on her superior under- 
standing are the consolation stakes men usually offer a 
plain woman.” 

I was silent, for indeed I did remember some awk- 
ward attempts of mine to convey to Miss Overstreet 
my appreciation of her conversation. 

“Ah, poor Charlotte!” she laughed. ’Twas clear 
she had not yet forgiven Miss Overstreet’s allusion to 
the fiddling and dancing Pitou ancestor. “Look at 
Eleanor,” she said suddenly, pausing at a window. 
“How prettily she moves along, and with Tom Broad- 
acre, who always treads on her feet! She dances with 
him because he cannot dance. She always takes part- 
ners no one else will have and talks to the bashful ones 
and the elderly. I will not walk or talk with any one 
that does not please me: but I can admire her goodness, 
as the Athenians did the Spartans, you know; or, was 
it the Athenians? You see,” moving on again, “I 
have been studying since you left, and have not spent 
all my time on samplers. Your Cousin Betty has 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


95 


just finished a beautiful piece of tapestry-work in 
Berlin wool — Ruth and Boaz in a corn-field; or per- 
haps ’tis Jonah and the whale. I hate cross-stitch 
more than she does the flageolet. And I admire Byron 
more than I do L. E. L., which, she tells me, is unlady- 
! like. Is it so very bad, Anthony ?” 

“Byron,” said I judicially, “ though somewhat lame, 
has not cloven feet or horns. Your turpitude about 
the tapestry-work abominations I can forgive. They 
; are worse, I think myself, than the flageolet, though 
: that, too — well, to return to poetry, I think that, with 
i some prudent adviser to select for you, you might 
! enjoy parts of Byron.” 

“Are you a prudent adviser? You do not look it, 

[ though you talk a little like Mrs. Hamilton. She 
i used to give us books to read out of which she had 
cut pages and pages. I knew a wicked girl — not I, 
'twas too much trouble — who would buy another copy 
of such a work, cut out what Mrs. Hamilton had left, 
and keep the rest. Ah! the reel is ended, and there 
j go Miles and Richard Northcote to the card-room, 

; perhaps. I am told he plays well.” 

“ Who— Miles?” 

“No, not Miles.” 

“Miles may content himself,” said I calmly, “with 
being the best dancer, rider, and shot in the country.” 

“ Except one or two. If he could sing like Richard 
Northcote or talk like you,” she murmured mockingly, 
“he would be an Admirable Crichton.” 

I would have answered, but the great hall door 
opening, let out a chorus of merry voices. 

“Ah! here will be some tiresome people looking 
for me,” she said, drawing me into a shady corner. 


9 6 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“Let us keep quite still; I don’t want to dance,” 
languidly. Her white hand clung to my arm, and 
she leaned with a slight pressure as of fatigue. Her 
light dress speedily caused discovery, however, and 
we were surrounded by various gallants, with re- 
proaches for her absence from the dance and charges 
that I had spirited their queen away and must now 
relinquish her. ’Twas nearly midnight, and the 
fiddlers playing a march reminded me to seek for supper 
the bridesmaid allotted me; but I turned a moment to 
pick up a plumy fan which Dorothy had dropped 
unknowing as she went. ’Twas a costly, fragile toy, 
but what attracted my notice in it were some lines 
faintly written within the mother-of-pearl and gold 
handle. I held it to the nearest light and read: 

FROM R. 

“ By Dolly’s lovely fingers pressed, 

What power this fan may claim ! 

For the same breeze that cools her breast 
In others lights a flame.” 

’Twas so much the custom of the day to indite verses 
to a fair friend about anything or nothing, the writer 
lisping in doggerel if the numbers would not come, 
that there was no special significance, perhaps, in this. 
But I thought if I were Miles I would not care that 
other men should come so near my sweetheart as to 
write these lines; nor, again, if I were Miles, would 
I consent to so long a betrothal. But my dear brother 
was ever of a frank and trusting spirit, and so entirely 
loyal and simple-minded himself that he could conceive 
of no less fine a sense of honor in friend or mistress. 

I had no opportunity to return the fan until after 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


97 

supper, when she was standing with Miles at the 
head of the last contra-dance. She took it with a 
slight accession of color, calling out at the same mo- 
ment “ La Belle Catherine,” as a notice to the fiddlers 
of the tune desired; and then — that was a dance to 
be remembered. How proudly and gayly the hand- 
some pair at the head bowed and stepped each a pas 
seal, then crossing hands down the middle, and then, 
when the sweet old air was closing, and the fiddlers’ 
bows rested on a final long note, what a picture they 
made in that graceful, lingering, stately salute! I 
saw Northcote, not in the dance, leaning against a 
window, his brilliant black eyes fixed on Dorothy. 

All guests were lodged in. the house that night, 
country fashion; and it must have been dawn before 
sounds of mirth died away completely in the bed- 
rooms. I seemed, myself, to have just closed my eyes, 
when the fiddles playing “ A Health to the Bride” sum- 
moned us to breakfast, where the bridesmaids poured 
out our coffee. A fox-hunt was arranged for this 
morning, which the clear, cool weather made delight- 
fully invigorating. ’Twas not a long or hard run, and 
we were back in time for a very gay dinner at two 
o’clock. Mr. Calhoun, whose table-talk had drawn my 
father and others around him, went up to Dorothy 
and her little court after this repast, and said, bowing: 

“Miss Winter, I have perceived that we stand, as to 
the young men here, somewhat in position of leaders 
of rival camps. If I dared to suggest such an inflic- 
tion of myself, we might be doubly strong by uniting 
our followers.” 

“ Let me place you in command of mine at once, Mr. 
Calhoun,” said Dorothy, rising to sweep him a courtesy. 


9 8 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


“ Nay, rather/’ he said, “I am but your lieutenant, 
an elderly one at that, and too glad to serve under so 
lovely a captain. Eh, Mr. Ashley, I see you smile! 
Though we are justices and doctors and churchmen, 
Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us. 
Speaking of churchmen, Miss Winter, reminds me of a 
story they told me down in Charleston about a young 
belle there. A clergyman said to her that he feared 
the reason there would be no marriages in Heaven 
was that there would be no women there. ‘No, rather,' 
she said quickly, ‘because there will be no clergy- 
man there to perform the ceremony. ’ " 

“ 'Twas disrespectful in her," pronounced Dorothy 
gravely, and we all laughed, for ’twas well known 
that Miss Winter herself was the belle in question. 
She wore a great quantity of soft fur this morning, 
which I had heard Nell call “swan’s-down," and 
warmed her dainty fingers in a muff as big as a pillow. 
She drew out of it presently a crumpled paper. “ ’Tis 
some verse of yours, I think," said she to my father. 
He took the paper and glanced over it, slightly puz- 
zled. 

“ ’Tis not mine." 

“The colonel’s, then," she suggested. I bit my lip, 
for I now remembered the paper. 

“ M or bleu!" said that gallant warrior. “Do you 
think I go about with a lot of scribbling in my pocket, 
like a sentimental youngster? No, madam, I talk in 
plain prose." 

“ The very plainest, sometimes," murmured Dorothy. 

“Let me see the paper," suggested Mr. Calhoun. 
“I may know it." 'Twas handed him, and with a 
look which showed me he understood the matter, he 


IN OLD ST, STEPHEN'S. 


99 


said, “With your permission I will read it to the com- 
pany.” Thus driven into a corner I claimed the 
foolish lines, which, during the noise and jollity last 
night, which would not let me sleep, had come to me 
with some remembered phrase of Virgil’s, and which, 
jotted down, must have been dropped from my pocket 
by accident somewhere about the place. 

“You will still allow me to read it,” persisted Mr. 
Calhoun quietly. His tone made further objection 
ungracious and I retreated, though with resentment at 
the untoward fate which had thrown the crude stuff in 
Dorothy’s way to court her mockery. If anything 
could have made sense of it, ’twould have been Mr. 
Calhoun’s manner of reading: 

IN AVERNUS. 

Through thickest gloom and ghostly plain athwart 
Peered the dark chieftain, under eyebrows swart, 

And, for the first, since virtuous he strode 
Alive ’mid shades whose wailings sad did bode 
Nothing but woe, he felt one real pang. 

Whose is that purple robe ? Whose sable hair 
Sweeps far away from crowned brow so fair ? 

Such, well he knows, was Dido in sweet prime. 

Comes tardy longing for a vanished time 
Ere yet, behind his ships, her vain cries rang. 

11 Stay, love,” he dared to plead, “ and speak to me. 

How came in thy white breast that wound I see? 

Had I but known that thou didst love me so, 

Not hell itself, nor all the gods could show 
Reason or fate so strong that we should part!” 

No look or word vouchsafed, she shuddering sped 
To denser shades. From traitorous voice she fled 
Winged with scorn. The pious hero sued, 

Yet saw the queen haste through the silent wood 
To rest upon Sichaeus’ faithful heart. 


IOO 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“Could I have suspected,” said I, “that the poor 
little scrawl was to be read to so brilliant a company, 
I would have selected some subject better suited to 
a festive scene.” 

My father nodded approval. Mr. Calhoun and the 
rest said something polite. To Dorothy I neither 
looked nor listened. I was well on my leisurely way 
to the outer door afterward, when a light step came 
behind me. On some feminine pretext she had fol- 
lowed, to lay a detaining hand on my arm, while the 
perfumed swan’s-down rose and sank with her quickened 
breathing, and say : “ Anthony, you are not really vexed ! 
I knew your, writing, of course, but had the lines 
been of me, instead of a dead Carthaginian woman, no 
other eye would ever have seen them, and I would 
have kept them — always!” 


CHAPTER IX. 


The wedding frolic was not over even yet, there 
being a second ball this evening, and the guests ex- 
pected to remain over under this hospitable roof until 
the morrow. But our family party had decided on 
returning that afternoon, my father having arranged to 
leave very early next morning for Washington. Miles 
and I were on horseback behind the coach, when I 
asked him: “What is the Boulanger, Miles ?” 

“Why, you have become a foreigner!” he answered, 
“ if you have forgotten that ’tis, with us, the last 
dance of the evening, and gives you the privilege of 
escorting your partner home afterward.” Was this, 
then, what the whispered agreement meant? 

“Who will attend Dorothy?” I asked. 

“Her father and mother are with her,” said he, 
opening his eyes a little. “’Tis a disappointment 
that I cannot stay; but they will remain over night, 
and if not, she can have a mounted escort of a score 
or more ” — laughing — “ if she likes.” 

“And when is the wedding to be, Miles?” 

“My dear fellow,” his face brightening, “soon, I 
hope. It has been put off twice; the last time on 
your account. She said we ought to wait until we 
could have your presence. The fact is, she is young 
and enjoys her freedom; but I hope to get her to 
name a day very soon now.” 

I found myself repeating silently: 

IOI 


102 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“For the same breeze that cools her breast 
In others lights a flame.” 

“ And how do you think our little puss of a sister 
takes Tom Broadacre’s attentions?” broke in his cheery 
voice. “ Not very seriously, I am afraid, but he is a 
thoroughly good fellow. He has asked me to use my 
influence, but I would not know how, I am sure. 
Perhaps you could, Anthony. Father says she must 
be left to herself; he thinks that feeling must be 
spontaneous. But what Cousin Betty approves in him 
is that he is master of his own place and two hundred 
hands. I do think sometimes, Anthony, that for all 
their books of poetry and that, women have not so 
much real sentiment as men.” 

“We are the money-makers,” said I oracularly — 
’twas in my youth — “ and can afford ourselves luxuries, 
even those of feeling.” 

My father wrote me from Charleston, where he 
stayed over Sunday on his way northward. He had 
had Mr. Calhoun’s company so far, which, he wrote, 
“made the journey seem short indeed. He went 
right on, but I had some business in town. I was 
sorry that he did not stay over and attend service at 
St. Michael’s — where I was not, by the way — but 
where he might have formed one of an illustrious trio. 
Mr. Clay and Mr. Webster, visiting acquaintances 
here, chanced, both of them, to be shown into the 
Westervelt pew, where they listened, side by side, to a 
sermon. ’Twas a good one, I hope; else they may 
have thought, as orators will, that they could have 
done much better themselves.” After remarks on 
plantation matters he concluded: “I have sometimes 
thought the trite verbum sapientia totally unnecessary; 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


103 


as the wise mostly find out for themselves anything of 
consequence. Still I go on to say that I hear much 
of high play at the club here, and in the country, too. 
If my sons were not both men grown, I would state 
that I have heard certain names connected with reck- 
less doings at Saratoga Springs and the White Sulphur. 
As it is, I merely send them my blessing and to the 
dear household fairy, etc.” 

I thought, after the epistles exchanged between my 
father and myself at Oxford, and which I could never 
forget, that his hint concerned me but little; and 
passed this letter to Miles, who with Nell was with 
me around the library hearth. He flushed somewhat 
and broke out impatiently: 

“ Our club-members here at the tavern play, of 
course, as most gentlemen do and as you ought to, 
Anthony. I hope we can afford a little play without 
ruining our fathers or ourselves. I suppose this is 
meant for Richard Northcote. ’Tis singular how his 
cleverness prejudices people against him. The most 
agreeable companion at fox-hunt or supper-table that 
I know, a splendid fellow, and ready for anything. I 
wonder, Anthony, that you cannot appreciate him. 
He has nothing but praise for you,” reproachfully. 

“ Surely, Miles, to you, at least!” I rejoined, a 
little sadly. ’Twas evident to me now that my 
father’s word to the wise had come to the foolish, in 
me. He had not, having great judgment himself, 
meant that I should use his words exactly in this way. 

“ I don’t understand my father’s prejudices,” Miles 
burst forth again. 

“Perhaps,” said I ironically, “he is jealous, as you 
suggested, of Mr. Northcote’s cleverness.” 


104 IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 

“Of course not,” cried Miles half ashamed, “and 
Dick admires my father beyond anything, and you 
know I could not mean that, Anthony. But,” with 
some hesitation, “ might he not — you know his views 
about birth and that — might he not have a feeling 
about not knowing who Dick’s parents were? Mr. 
Northcote himself told my father the story. His own 
negro, a butcher in the Charleston market, brought 
him the child which had been found early in the 
morning on his stall, with a paper pinned to its dress, 
stating that the parents were strangers passing through 
the city on a long journey, and would never return or 
claim the infant. So the Northcotes, being with- 
out a child, took him for their own. Dick never al- 
ludes to this; but I have heard him say that a romantic 
origin was of advantage to a man in France, even 
though ’tisnot so here.” Miles having talked himself 
into good-humor again, here took his whip and went, 
whistling, to keep a riding engagement. 

“Then France is the place for him,” said I to turn 
off the subject lightly with Eleanor. But her soft 
eyes had widened a little anxiously while we were 
talking, and her cheek was pale. She put her arm 
through mine, and playing with my coat-sleeve mur- 
mured: 

“ Papa would admire Mr. Northcote more, and you, 
too, Anthony, knowing him better. He is so enter- 
taining and accomplished, and his voice is surely 
delightful !” 

“My dear child,” I said gently, “I do not intend 
to be ungenerous to an old playmate; but if he had 
the voice of a seraph, Miles is intimate enough for 
the whole family.” In my heart, however, noting the 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 105 

tremor of her voice, I was saying something quite in 
the colonel's vein. “In the mean time, tell me again 
where I can get those roots you want.” 

“ There is only one place, and it is two miles off the 
road, on the edge of the cypress swamp, you know, 
half a mile from Chinquapin Creek, near old Juba’s 
hut.” 

“ And why not have sent Cato or one of the boys for 
them at once ?” 

“ Oh, you could not get a negro on the place to go 
near that swamp. I have sent them, and they come 
back and tell me they could find no such roots. But 
Lucinda says they only pretend to go, thinking the 
place is haunted. I believe a Tory spy was hung near 
by on a cypress tree, and they say his spirit walks 
three and screams dismally at night. And then they 
are afraid of that poor old African, Juba. They say 
he is an ‘obi’ man and will “cunjur” them. Cato 
went there once for a charm, and Juba got angry with 
him about something, and he has had rheumatism 
ever since. I suppose he got wet in the swamp, and 
went to sleep, very likely, in damp clothes; they are 
so imprudent when you are not watching them. But 
'tis of no use arguing with them since then.” 

I remember Nell’s words that night, and made a 
trial of them with my Castor, ordering him to go down 
to the swamp next morning for the roots. But he 
begged off piteously, his face gray with terror and 
teeth chattering in his head as he asked “ef Mas’ An- 
thony was dat ti-ed of him dat he ax him fer walk right 
een to de debbil’s jaws.” 

“You black rascal!” called Miles through his door, 
which as usual was open. “What have you been 


106 IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 

doing that you’re so afraid of poor old Juba! I’d 
like to see Pollux if I ordered him there sneak out of 
going for an old ghost or two!” 

But he did, in fact, indulge Pollux much more than 
I did his twin, and the scamp was a notorious idler, 
who lied to his master and adored him faithfully and 
consistently. 

I was busy for weeks after this, Francis Doubleday 
having gone down to Charleston to order supplies and 
being detained there. And besides my own work, I 
was glad to help Miles at Woodhurst. Cousin Betty 
was much concerned about Mrs. Doubleday’s loneli- 
ness, and trotted over to the cottage frequently in her 
bustling, kindly way, with some little gift or bit of 
fine linen or lace to mend, an art which she had her- 
self taught to Mrs. Doubleday. But she seldom 
found her at home, Mrs. Northcote having one of her 
bad spells about this time and sending for her nearly 
every day; for the young woman, though without 
much education to make her companionable, was, they 
told me, extremely quick and skilful as a sick-nurse. 

My father’s letters from Washington were now a 
source of keen interest, the political crisis being at 
fever height — wars and rumors of wars in the atmos- 
phere. 

“ Mille diables ! ” cried the colonel, who always came 
up to hear the letters read, striking his stick, which 
he had begun latterly to lean upon, on Cousin Betty’s 
waxed floor. “ Have we fought and bled to escape 
foreign tyranny only to suffer a more galling one from 
our own brethren, whom we went into that fight largely 
to help, moreover, we being a favored colony here and 
suffering but nominal oppression? These tariffs are 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


107 


worse!” His voice was all for war; and when Cousin 
Betty suggested that he had lost enough by strife in the 
past to incline to more peaceful views, he cried: 
“ Nothing left, madam, but the kitchen and Primus 
and this old carcass, to which my State is now welcome, 
as my country was before.” 

Miles, when he was at home of an evening, which 
between Dorothy and the club at The George was not 
often, delighted in spurring the veteran into these 
belligerent moods, in which he would go on abusing 
God’s patience and the king’s English, at the same 
time picking up Nell’s thimble or placing a chair for 
Cousin Betty with suavest gallantry. The latter would 
counsel moderation and quote Sir Roger’s “ There is 
much to be said on both sides,” in relation to this nul- 
lification excitement “Which wise saying is, you 
know, Anthony, from the Spectator , a work too little 
appreciated by the .young now. In my girlhood ’twas 
a great treat when my papa would read one of the 
papers aloud to us.” 

’Twas not easy to be moderate in the rush and heat 
of debate in the southern country when nullification 
was in question. But in politics I was in accord 
with my dear father, who tried to be just, dispas- 
sionate, and catholic in his opinions more than any 
man I ever knew. And ’twas a pleasure to be able to 
send him the Charleston paper in which were printed, 
occasionally, essays of mine on public matters, as 
well as other lucubrations in the way of verses. 

Whether ’twas his martial spirit revived or the 
superb, clear, sparkling sunlit days we were now enjoy- 
ing in our pine-lands, which restored to the colonel 
some illusion of youth I cannot tell; but something 


108 IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 

very startling in his connection happened about this 
time. 

Going over to Buzzard’s Roost rather late one 
morning, followed by Caesar and Castor, I met him 
on the road, on Hurrah, his mule, in the old regi- 
mentals which flapped gayly, booted and spurred, his 
cocked hat on; and Primus, in a much-damaged suit 
of his master’s, trotting after on Squash. His 
dress and air would have told me that this was an 
occasion of ceremony, even had not his familiar, 
every-day greeting been replaced by a magnificent 
wave of the hat and the announcement: “I am, as 
you may see, sir, on my way to pay a morning call at 
your father’s hospitable mansion.” 

“ Where you will be as welcome, sir,” I replied, 
falling in with his humor, “ as you are on every day 
when you choose to honor us with a visit.” 

“I thank you, sir,” responded Colonel Milton, with 
much gravity, “and shall accept your polite assur- 
ance as an omen of good fortune.” 

Whereupon he went his way, followed by a guffaw 
from Castor, half-suppressed by my frown, and a look 
of profound admiration from Caesar, whose own manner 
was very good, being copied, with exaggeration, from 
my father’s, but to whom anything like high-flown 
magnificence was as the breath of his nostrils. 

The colonel had departed when I reached the house 
at dinner-time; but something of mystery hung in the 
air, and I saw Eleanor peep at me from behind the 
hall-clock, and make smiling signs when I was enter- 
ing the library, where Cousin Betty was seated. The 
latter was much flushed and wore an unusual air of 
importance. Indeed, the disrespectful thought crossed 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. IO9 

my mind that between her ruffles and her plumpness 
she looked to-day like a very nice pouter-pigeon. Not 
until after dinner, when we were alone together, did 
she say solemnly: 

“Anthony, I wish all my family to know in confi- 
dence the purpose of Colonel Milton’s visit of ceremony 
here this morning. He had already written to your 
father to ask his permission to pay his addresses to 
me, which was exceedingly correct and shows his ac- 
quaintance with genteel customs. And he tells me 
that my Cousin Anthony replied that ’twas a matter to 
be decided entirely by myself. Of course, at my age, I 
have no intention of changing my condition in life, and 
told Colonel Milton that while I was vastly flattered by 
the compliment he paid me, I begged that the matter 
should not be mentioned again” — and here, dropping 
abruptly her stateliness and the colonel, the good soul 
put her head on my shoulder, murmuring, with a tear 
or two — “as if I would leave you all !” Eleanor, to 
whom this little passage between her elders was as 
unexpected as a thunderbolt from a clear sky, or some 
one paying his addresses to St. Michael’s steeple, 
had, it appeared, made a little fun of the colonel’s 
solemnity, and more when she learned the object of 
his visit; but was abruptly checked by Cousin Betty’s 
getting vexed, for the first time in her experience, 
calling her “a graceless and giddy girl ” and sending 
her out of the room. They were soon friends again, 
however, and the only result of this episode was 
Cousin Betty’s looking a little sentimental for a 
few days and reading “Sir Charles Grandison,” in 
eleven volumes, all through once more. 

The colonel, without any awkwardness, settled down 
8 


I IO 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


again to his evening game of whist at Woodhurst, in 
the capacity of friend and partner. And without 
any further allusion to this spasmodic venture, never 
thereafter spoke of our cousin without some appre- 
ciative adjective, as “ The worthy Miss Sherwood?” 
“Your admirable cousin,” “ That fine — that excellent 
woman!” 


CHAPTER X. 


Doubleday’s return from town gave us leisure to 
engage in a grand three-days’ hunt just organized and 
attended by the younger men from miles around, and 
for which we had invited Tom Broadacre, with others, 
to come up and spend the week at our house. He was 
the best of good fellows; and though a heedless 
rider, who had a way of pitching over his horse’s head 
into a muddy ditch or thorn hedge when we were 
tearing through and over everything in our thickly 
wooded country, he escaped by sheer luck with nothing 
but bruises, and brought home as good accounts as 
anybody. That is, when he went, which he evaded, 
as often as he could, on any pretext, from over-sleep- 
ing himself to Eleanor’s cut finger or Cousin Betty’s 
broken papier-machfr work-table, both of which he un- 
dertook to mend. 

“ For I know a little of everything,” he declared, “ ex- 
cept the law, and I would know that, only ’tis my pro- 
fession. The fact is,” he told Miles and me, with a 
confidential twinkle of the eye, “ I can go shooting in 
Edisto any day, but ’tis not always I have a chance at 
dove-hunting and dear-shooting in-doors.” Of which 
remark I thought it more dignified to take no notice, 
though Miles laughed. 

’Twas a most successful week as regards game, as in 
addition to foxes and deer, we brought in two wolves 
and a bear, wild-turkeys and ducks, snipe, grouse, and 

1 1 1 


1 12 IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 

innumerable other unconsidered trifles. But ’twas not 
the game, but the hunt, the chase, the horn sounding 
clear on the cold early morning air, the neighing of the 
horses and baying of the hounds, the cheery talk, the 
pleasant start, the aromatic piney breeze blowing in 
the riders’ faces, the wild rush, the obstacles o’er- 
leaped, the breathless coming in with the snarling, 
worrying hounds at the finish — that make the heart 
stir exultant at the remembrance even now. Or, at 
the less-exciting bird-shooting, how is fatigue and 
hunger, cold and mud, discomfort and patient, weari- 
some waiting forgotten when the dog crouches and the 
crack of the practiced rifle, through the sedges or over 
the creek, brings down a certain prize. 

On one clear wintry morning, when the meet was 
three miles off, Dorothy, Eleanor, and Miss Overstreet 
mounted to ride that far with us. All our visitors sur- 
rounded the ladies’ horses as nearly as they could; but 
presently, when the road grew narrower, Dorothy 
reined in her horse and dropped behind, giving Tom 
Broadacre a chance, of which he availed himself, to 
leave me and join Nell. I hardly expected Miss 
Winter to address me, so distant had been her manner 
since the wedding, but she whispered: 

“ Anthony, how well Charlotte Overstreet rides.” 
She knew that with her own eyes glowing and that 
damask color on her cheek, and sitting her horse as 
though she had done nothing else but ride, no one near 
her was likely to be noticed. I have seen famous 
equestriennes then and since in Rotten Row and Cen- 
tral Park, and do not doubt that the curtailed English 
habit and stiff hat are more safe and suitable than the 
flowing riding-robe and plumes of my youth and region. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


113 

But these were more graceful, less suggestive of the 
cast-iron rules of the riding-school, and more so of 
girlhood, accustomed from earliest years to swift canter 
through the greenwood, and of the peerless Guinivere 
as she fled fast through light and shade. Some such 
thought must have come to me now, for I said: 

“Shall I send you over a new volume of Tennyson, 
with a poem which makes me think of you?” And 
repented my impulse next moment, for she extended 
her gloved hand with an enchanting smile: 

“ I shall accept it as a flag of truce.” 

I felt Northcote’s bold black eyes on us both, and 
so did she probably; for she said quickly, including 
both Miles and him in her explanation: 

“Anthony is making peace for having celebrated a 
dead queen in his rhyme the other day instead of some 
living fair lady.” 

“I would make no peace,” said Northcote, affecting 
to find something wrong about her bridle, “ unless the 
modern fair one’s charms were duly celebrated now, 
extemporaneous, as: 

il ‘ Had fairest Dorothy, in Dido’s place, 

Besought ^Eneas to remain, 

He’d gladly lost his fame with Latin race, 

Her heart’s empire to retain.* ” 

“Bravo!” cried Miles. “So-so, Brownie,” sitting 
his horse, wildly plunging at a sudden squirrel, like a 
centaur. But Dorothy looked at me, and knowing my 
brother’s indifference to “books of poetry and that,” I 
felt constrained to rejoin, in his place: 

“ Had Dorothy but wished the prince to stay 
And only looked at him, her eyes 
Had overthrown his goddess- mother’s sway 
And love alone seemed truly wise.” 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


114 

We came out into the open just here, and spurring 
my innocent beast, he started the others plunging, and 
gave Northcote, being nearest, an opportunity of sooth- 
ing and patting Dorothy’s. Her face was turned from 
me, and she called out gayly: 

“See what a crowd! This is the limit of the ladies’ 
mile, and we will not detain these Nimrods. ’Tis 
time to leave them to their cruelties.” And wheeling, 
followed by their grooms, the fair riders parted 
from us. 

As ’twas the last of the hunt, we gave a little supper 
at our house that night, in which the bear-steak, wild- 
turkey, venison, and other small deer of our killing 
played an important part. And there were cards after- 
ward for some and music for others. Dorothy re- 
fused, in a manner which was final, to play the flageolet 
for so many. But she and Eleanor sang their Jacobite 
songs with great effect, and when nearly every one had 
left Northcote was prevailed on, at her request, to 
sing “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes” and 
“Black-eyed Susan,” and afterward a French farewell, 
which I did not know, but ’twas most plaintive and 
thrilling in his magnificent tones. I saw a wistful, pale 
look on our Nell’s face after this, and was vexed for 
his own sake that Tom Broadacre immediately after 
volunteered a Harvard ditty called “ The Runaway’s 
Song,” of which two of the verses ran: 

“ Get up, get up, Miss Polly Jones, 

The tandem’s at the door; 

Get up and shake your lovely bones — 

’Tis twelve o’clock and more. 

“ The chaises they have rattled by and nothing stirs around, 

And all the world but you and I are snoring safe and sound; 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


I 15 


I broke a drunken watchman’s nap and he began to mutter, 

I gave him just a gentle tap, that helped him to the gutter; 

The cur-dog growled an ugly growl and grinned a bitter grin, 

I tipped the beast a rats-bane pill to keep his music in. 

Get up, get up, Miss Polly Jones,” etc. 

We were all required to join in the chorus, which gave 
an excuse for the laughter I could not restrain at the 
sight of Cousin Betty’s disgusted face, fresh as she was 
from “ Sir Charles Grandison.” And when he topped 
this off with an absurd story of Prince William kissing 
a barber’s wife in New York, she made an excuse of 
showing me a cracked ivory bobbin, that she might 
whisper : 

“ ’Tis a wonder a gentleman will show himself so 
undignified.” 

Her influence, I fear, was used against the poor fel- 
low’s success with Nell, and when he went off next day, 
’twas after a refusal. He was as cheery as possible, 
however, and informed me that he was of the kind 
who never say die, and that he would see us again be- 
fore long. 

The next day was Sunday, and Miles rode away to 
escort his betrothed to church. Cousin Betty made me 
the same reproaches for not attending her and Eleanor 
thither that she used to make to my father long ago. 
“ And ’tis the same book he used to stay with,” glancing 
at my small volume with as much distaste as though 
it had been a work on the black art. Whereas ’twas 
nothing worse than his and my old friend Quintus 
Horatius Flaccus, than whom there is no better com- 
pany. 

When they returned, Richard Northcote rode with 
them and stayed to dinner. He had much to say 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


1 16 

about the sermon, quoting my father to the effect that 
a bald discourse was often made to sound religious by 
the use of such words as “taketh” and “maketh,” and 
the like, instead of plain “makes” and “takes.” 
Cousin Betty thought this irreverent and looked grave 
until an allusion to the singing amused them all. The 
colonel, who, in these latter years, displayed much zeal 
in church-singing, but a voice, as Castor said, “ Berry 
like a goat,” had undertaken, it appeared, to lead the 
hundredth psalm, and a cabal secretly formed against 
him starting it to a different tune at the same moment, 
the entire stanza was carried through in loud and per- 
fect discordance by the two parties. 

“ ’Twas like the howling of wolves in the wilder- 
ness,” said Northcote, “and I should have left the 
church but that I was ashamed when I saw your gentle 
seriousness, Miss Eleanor.” 

“It must have been a trial to you,” said Nell softly, 
“with your fine musical ear.” 

He went off shortly, and late in the afternoon I be- 
thought me to ride over to see the colonel. ’Twas 
late when I mounted again after my visit to The Camp, 
but I suddenly remembered the roots Nell wanted, and 
there was still time before night to ride to the swamp. 
I took the direction she had indicated, crossed Chin- 
quapin Creek, and made my way as straight as I could 
through the undergrowth, dense and matted. I was to 
make for old Juba’s hut; and so out of the way was it 
that I twice missed the direction and retraced my steps 
before I sighted the wretched mud-plastered cabin on 
the remote edge of the creek. I tied my horse behind 
a clump of trees, advancing to have some talk with the 
old negro, whom I dimly remembered as belonging to 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. I 1 7 

the colonel’s father, having freed himself during the 
colonel’s absence; and the latter had taken no steps to 
claim him on his return, Primus being all-sufficient 
and Juba very old. He looked a century at least, I 
thought, when I saw him sitting in his doorway, very 
black, wrinkled, bent almost in two, his dim eyes sunk 
in his head, his scant woolly hair white, muttering to 
himself. I did not wonder the superstitious negroes 
held him in awe. Two buzzards flew up from the roof, 
where they were resting after some grewsome feast, then 
flew down again and recommenced their uncouth hop- 
ping and noise. I could see some bones and the 
whitened skull of a horse fastened to the wall inside, 
and a snake gliding between his feet startled me con- 
siderably until he took it in his claw-like hands and 
I saw that the fangs had been extracted. He did not 
look at all surprised to see me, though surely human 
faces here were rare, but peered at me as though a 
mummy should raise its head, then drop its chin again 
upon its breast. I sat on a stump and managed to get 
the old creature to talk to me in his curious mixture of 
Gullah, which I inflict on no one unaccustomed to it in 
childhood. 

The substance of his discourse was that he could 
remember the African battle when his tribe was van- 
quished and the survivors made prisoners; he, the 
chief’s son, yoked with others in gangs and marched 
along weary miles to the sea-shore. Then the em- 
barkation on the slaver, the dreadful passage across 
with hatches battened down during the storm, and it 
seemed like heaven at last, though sold into slavery, 
to reach the journey’s end and be surrounded by faces 
strange but sympathetic. 


1 1 8 IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 

’Twas with difficulty even I could understand him, so 
interlarded was his talk with African words, but I 
made out that he thought he was about a hundred and 
fifteen; that he had been well treated by his purchaser, 
Peter Milton, and left to practical freedom since his 
death by the latter’s son. “ How do you make a 
living?” I asked. And he pointed to bunches of herbs 
and roots and sundry vials, which he said “ Da berry 
good medicine,” and offered to sell me. 

“I hear, Juba,” I said, lowering my voice, “ that 
you practise Obi. Is that so? And that you make 
charms to conjure your enemies with.” 

He gave me a baleful look from his small eyes and 
said briefly, “ Dat fool nigger talk.” But on my giv- 
ing him a coin before mounting, he muttered that a 
fine young man like me would some time need a love- 
spell, and he could then give me something that would 
make all work to my will. I rode slowly, thinking of 
this old fellow — a prince who would have led bloody 
frays in his own country, and offered ghastly human 
sacrifices, and sat at the head of smoking cannibal 
feasts, ending his days innocuously, at least, beside 
this lonely American swamp, until the current of my 
thoughts was turned by the beauty of the evening. 

The setting sun cast oblique glistening rays through 
the dark cypress. The tall pines stood sentinel over a 
carpet of their fragrant needles, as they had stood in 
this virgin forest for who knows how many years. Wild 
vines and scrub-bushes clustered thick in the under- 
growth. There was just the twitter of one little belated 
bird. My horse’s hoofs made no noise at all upon the 
yielding matted bed of fallen leaves. We crossed a 
little muddy stream, and I saw, all at once, in a shady, 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


I 19 

secluded growth of myrtles, two persons, a man and a 
woman. They talked together, too far for even a 
murmur of their voices to reach me, and their backs 
were turned to me; but that profusion of flaxen hair 
resting on his shoulder, and the very slender, tall form 
his arm encircled were undoubtedly those of Double- 
day’s young wife. As for the man, though I would 
not have sworn at that distance and without seeing 
his face that ’twas Richard Northcote, it looked like 
no one else. 


CHAPTER XI. 


As this winter was drawing to a close, it seemed that 
a spirit of disquiet was in the air, instead of the sweet 
peace and light-hearted enjoyment inseparable, here- 
tofore, from our home. Or perhaps ’twas merely a 
demon of unrest which took possession of me. I was 
often out at this time and riding down the avenue while 
the last stars still hung in the heavens to catch a 
glimpse of Aurora fair, and long before the gang- 
driver’s horn broke the drowsy stillness in which the 
great house and the quarters alike were plunged. 
This even if I had been up most of the night at some 
of our country entertainments or in the library over my 
books. In the latter case, Miles came in to me some- 
times, perhaps from Dorothy, or if much later, from 
the club-room at the tavern, and swore with protests, 
not of pepper-gingerbread, that I would end by making 
a bookworm of myself, and I had better have been 
with him. I had better not have been with him in 
either case, I knew, especially if ’twas to stand by and 
see nominally small stakes covering the high play 
which I was powerless to prevent. Northcote’s fas- 
cination for my brother was such that though his lov- 
ing heart was mine as ever, I had, by my own retire- 
ment from what angered and grieved me, much less of 
his company now. Sometimes I did go down to The 
George, and would have enjoyed an occasional even- 
ing there with the pleasant company, but Northcote’s 
120 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


12 I 


inevitable appearance in Miles’ wake, and their subse- 
quent retreat to the private card-room after a perfunc- 
tory invitation to myself, spoiled my pleasure. Homo 
sum is a wholesome check to any one who would play 
self-sufficient mentor to his fellows; and in view of 
past weakness of my own and my brother’s restive- 
ness, I had said no word about these matters since I 
had shown him my father’s letter. But one night, 
coming in excited with winning, and with wine perhaps 
— Northcote, by physician’s orders, he said, never ex- 
ceeded one glass — he spoke himself of the evening’s 
game. 

“ Pollux, at least,” said I dryly, “will soon be pro- 
ficient. He tells Castor he is growing rich from 
coin dropped under the table and left there for the 
waiters.” 

“Lying scamp,” he cried carelessly, “he has no 
business down there to wait on us. The tavern 
waiters are enough. Is it because you are afraid of 
making Castor rich that you will not come, or because 
you are superior to such follies?” 

If I had been represented in the odious position of 
prudent and supercilious virtue, I knew ’twasby North- 
cote. I did not answer, but looked at him; instantly 
his handsome flushed face changed, and he put his 
hand on my shoulder. 

“You know very well, Anthony, that I was but jest- 
ing, and ’twould be better for me if I were like you. 
Perhaps when Dorothy fixes the day and I become a 
domestic man ’twill be different.” A touch of wist- 
fulness in his tone knocked at my heart. 

“You will be imprudent to wait for that, Miles, for 
I heard long ago that no one wins finally with North- 


122 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


cote; and you know, my dear brother, that in any dif- 
ficulty, what little I have is yours; but,” with a laugh, 
“I would rather Northcote did not have it.” I knew, 
as did he, that outside a liberal allowance he actually 
owned slaves only, on whom he could not easily raise 
money without my father’s knowledge, and the latter’s 
abhorrence of what he called debts of dishonor we both 
knew also. 

“Thank you,” said Miles absently, “but I am 
ahead, I assure you.” 

“Just now,” I rejoined significantly, but with a 
yawn, half-simulated, he took his flat candlestick and 
went off to bed. 

For two or three weeks he was more at home, pleas- 
ing Cousin Betty and Eleanor mightily, or came back 
early from the Winters’. I called there one evening 
for him, on my way from supper at a distant plantation, 
and he had already left; but Northcote, who it ap- 
peared had just come in, was leaning over Dorothy’s 
harpsichord, singing to her accompaniment. And I 
stayed but a few minutes, though she made a little 
play of getting out her flageolet in a hurry for my 
pleasure. Northcote took tea at Woodhurst once or 
twice during this interval, and I feared our Nell’s eyes 
were the brighter for his coming. After one of these 
occasions Cousin Betty waited for me at the foot of the 
winding stairs, bedroom candle in hand, to whisper: 

“ Richard Northcote seems to find a vast deal of 
pleasure in his visits here, don’t you think, Anthony? 
He is monstrous agreeable, to my mind, and if Nell 
should take a fancy ” 

“God forbid!” I had nearly said, but bethinking 
myself, refrained. I had no proof to bring forward of 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


123 


the stories against him, and as for what I had seen — I 
had been talking that afternoon with Doubleday on the 
overseer’s steps, when Northcote rode up the avenue, 
and his condescending nod to Mrs. Doubleday had met 
scarcely an acknowledgment from her habitually 
downcast eyes. I contented myself with saying with 
emphasis: “ I have reason to know he has not thought 
of Nell; and, dear Cousin Betty, you would not do her 
such wrong as make her think of him.” 

She lingered still to say: “ Oh, if you mean Dorothy. 
He knows, like all the world, of her engagement to 
Miles, and ’tis only his friendship for both makes him 
so attentive.” 

I stood, after the good soul left me, in a shock of 
surprise she never knew she had given. Was it possi- 
ble that Northcote’s devotion to Dorothy was so open 
that it needed to be accounted for? And was Miles 
careless, or indulgent, or fascinated? Oh, if I were 
Miles! This was one unquiet night whose dawn found 
me riding out under the morning star. 

In the earliest spring came a letter from my father, 
saying that he would come on by rail and meet such 
of us in Charleston as cared to be there for race week. 
In my present mood any change would have been wel- 
come, and I consented to act as escort to Cousin Betty 
and Eleanor. Miles did not care to go, on account of 
Dorothy, I supposed, and I forebore to press him, 
though I foresaw that he would drift again into his 
evenings at The George, all the more easily as Richard 
Northcote, taking no notice of his defection, had made 
himself doubly and charmingly agreeable. ’Twas 
only the day before we were starting when the Winters, 
coming over for a game of whist, asked Cousin Betty 


124 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


to take charge of Dorothy as far as the city, where she 
would stay with her uncle for the Jockey Club ball. 
Cousin Betty willingly consented, and I took the first 
opportunity of offering to Miles my position as escort 
now that his betrothed would be of the party. He 
hesitated, looking somewhat confused, and glanced 
toward Northcote, lounging near Nell, who drew near, 
asking: 

“ Did you speak to me?” 

“No,” said Miles, “but I was considering how to 
reconcile my engagement with Anthony’s proposal that 
I shall go down to Charleston in his place.” 

“ Is Mr. Anthony Ashley going down ?” his face 
darkening visibly. “I did not know.” Then, with 
something like a sneer, “ Would you be cruel enough 
to deprive him of that pleasure?” 

“Oh, for that matter,” said Miles simply, “he does 
not care more for horses than you and I do; and 
there are no very good ones to run. But there are 
other things — and now that Miss Winter is to go — see 
here, Northcote, we could postpone it, or you could 
come too.” 

“You know that I cannot!” with something like 
violence, though in a low tone. “ My mother is too 
ill, and I can’t leave. *Tis just my cursed luck at 
this time. And as for a postponement — ’tis as you 

please, though ” He shrugged his shoulders and 

the unpleasant look showed under his mustache. 

I walked off, not wishing to be discourteous in my 
own home, and guessing that this engagement was 
somehow connected with their gaming. Whatever it 
was, he was pleasant enough the rest of the evening, 
and Miles told me at bed-time that he had decided to 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 12 5 

put off his trip to Charleston until some time when we 
could all stay longer. 

He went over to Fairview for Dorothy in the morn- 
ing, with the gig, and brought her back, to be trans- 
ferred to our travelling-coach, looking as dazzling fair 
as Hebe herself. I find myself constantly comparing 
this beautiful creature to some heathen goddess, and 
’tis trite enough. But, with a divinity’s charms, she 
possessed a divinity’s undoubted power to thrill and 
subjugate; and was like a modern poet’s description of 
a daughter of the gods, as she was divinely tall and 
most divinely fair. She was dressed for this journey, 
I remember, in a close-fitting pelisse, frogged and 
braided, and edged with some gray fur, her lovely eyes 
shining under the brim of a great hat, and carried a 
large muff of the same gray fur, with many little 
pockets in it for handkerchief, smelling-bottle, and 
the like. I took this from her as she mounted the 
coach-steps, and a note fell out, which, as I restored, 
she hastily thrust into her reticule. But I could not 
help seeing that the address was in the same hand as 
the one which the Landgrave’s picture had concealed. 

Our horses, in the sun of Jupiter’s approving smile, 
went well, and ’twas early when, after a moment’s pause 
at the Bull’s Head Tavern, we went, driving for a 
better roadway, past the statue of Pitt, decapitated 
once accidentally, but wearing the line of mending 
now like a necklace around its majestic neck. Down 
King Street into Market, past a 44 licensed stand” for 
drays, displacing a drove of buzzards, self-constituted 
scavengers, who hopped grotesquely about the market- 
place, and so through Church, to take our ease at our 
inn, after driving Miss Winter to her uncle’s residence 
9 


126 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


on the corner of Atlantic Street and Zig-Zag Alley. 
We might, on the next day, which was Washington’s 
Birthday, have heard the oration delivered before sev- 
eral societies in St. Philip’s Church, as was then the 
custom, but we did not go, having other engagements. 
My father had not yet arrived when we left the hotel 
that evening for the theatre, where Dorothy was to 
meet us in the box, coming with her uncle. She illu- 
minated the box for us, and her delicious laugh was 
music to hear when her uncle, fat and scant of breath, 
settled himself down panting, to read from the heading 
of the play-bill : “ ‘This theatre, incase of fire, has 
thirteen doors, all opening outward.’ That is comfor- 
table to know.” 

“ Why, uncle, do you think they will set fire to the 
building just to celebrate the day?” 

“There is no knowing,” solemnly, “what may hap- 
pen.” 

The play that evening, very well acted by the elder 
Wallack and Miss Placide, was “The Belle’s Strata- 
gem.” There was a very pretty masquerade scene in 
one act — pretty, at least, for those days — and some of 
the men in the pit stood up the better to see. “ Down! 
down!” cried the indignant ones in the rear. One of 
the former, a rather rough fellow, turned and pointed 
significantly to a beaver bonnet in front of him, mon- 
strously large, and further increased in size by many 
upright feathers. A general laugh, the cause of which 
puzzled the unconscious wearer of the hat, restored him 
to good-humor, and he sat down. Our ladies were in- 
dignant at his boldness, even gentle Eleanor being 
goaded into saying “ she supposed this was a free 
country, where every one might wear what she chose.” 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


127 


And when I asked “ if meek, miserable, wretched man 
had no rights whatever,” Cousin Betty, with apparent 
irrelevance, wanted to know if I “ would like my sis- 
ter, or any of them, to look as if they came out of 
Noah’s ark. ” 

“ Not having had the honor of Mrs. Shem, Ham or 
Japhet’s acquaintance,” I ventured, “I cannot say if 
their costume was becoming.” 

“ I notice, however,” said Dorothy, putting up the 
long-handled quizzing-glass she chose to carry to the 
play, “ that you have not tried to revive the dress of 
those ladies’ husbands in your own person,” giving a 
look a my imported suit, which, in those youthful days 
of purple and fine linen, approached to dandyism. A 
weakness for which, after all, I do not blush at now. 

The drop-curtain, a novel one at that time, being 
one large mirror which reflected the whole brilliant 
house, had just gone up on the next act and ended our 
unprofitable chat. ’Twas while some verses in honor of 
the “ Immortal Washington ” were introduced that a 
slight smell of scorching and a faint mist of smoke 
went through the building. The terrific thrill that, in 
one great shock, affects a crowd, caused many to leap 
to their feet. The next moment there was a rush in 
the pit and a scrambling and climbing over benches, 
threatening a destructive panic. Wallack, hurrying to 
the foot-lights, appealed in vain for order. Reduced 
to pantomime, he pointed to where, the scenery drawn 
aside, a great pool of water showed how quickly and 
effectually the buckets, kept in readiness, had extin- 
guished the slight flame. Many of the audience re- 
seated themselves, while the play proceeded, but many 
did not return. I had tried during the first confusion 


128 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


to keep our company quiet. Several young beaux, 
however, in attendance on the girls, had burst open 
the box-door and pushed forward into the throng. 
Mr. Winter, Cousin Betty, and Nell were following, 
when I forcibly detained them with my back to the 
door, and I think saved them some bruises. By the 
time the brief excitement was over, they were ready to 
sit down, very pale, but laughing, though nervously, 
at their own alarm. So great had been the panic that 
’twas like a dream — thinking of it afterward — that 
Dorothy, who had risen, but not left her place, with a 
curious smile on her white face, her beautiful lips 
trembling, had clasped her hands on my arm, and mur- 
mured so close that her soft hair brushed my cheek: 
“You remember reading of the Richmond fire long 
ago, Anthony? If — if ’tis like that, though you do 
not care for me, Anthony, you will not leave me, but 
let me stay with you to the end.” I may have fancied 
it, for already the color was mantling in her cheek, 
and she was listening with apparent interest to the last 
act. Moved by a sudden impulse, I took up the snowy 
fan lying on the ledge in front and said, pointing to 
the faintly written lines within the sticks: 

“ The writer of these might protest that our little fire 
was nothing in point of danger to the flame that this 
toy can raise by Dolly’s lovely fingers pressed.” 

She glanced at it and said languidly: “I am tired of 
that fan. Miles has given me a new one. You may 
keep it to remember to-night; or — you may throw it 
away.” 

O Dolly, Dolly, long dead now, will I ever grow 
so old, or will I be so cold within my coffin, that a 
touch of that soft, feathered trifle, kept despite of res- 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


129 


olution, cannot thrill me like a fancied clasp of cling- 
ing white hands, or an imagined murmur of tremu- 
lous magic tones! 

A slight stir in the group behind during the closing 
scene apprised me of some one entering, but I was 
surprised when we arose at the end to find my father’s 
keen eyes meet mine. 

“ I have but just arrived,” he explained, “ and meant, 
to await you at the hotel; but some foolish rumor of 
a fire made me hurry round, to find you all as comfor- 
table as possible.” 

I sat up in his room until nearly dawn, listening to his 
account of the exciting events and stirring eloquence 
now moving the country’s heart to wild pulsations, 
felt in all its parts. I need not repeat what he said, 
for it has since become matter of history, but will only 
say that the heat had risen to such a point in Charles- 
ton that the whole city was suffering from a military 
fever. Even on Sunday at St. Michael’s, our ladies, 
with the rest of the congregation, were much disturbed 
by the drilling just outside of the militia — the “ Beats,” 
as the street-arabs christened one company resembling 
Falstaff’s in picturesque variety of uniform. Some of 
the vestrymen went out and vigorously protested, but 
this not availing, a petition was addressed later to the 
honorable intendant and wardens that they would be 
pleased to have this martial practice confined to week- 
days or removed from the neighborhood, “ as their 
previous edict against pasturing of cows and mules 
in the grave-yard during divine service had proved 
effectual.” 

We were in something of a whirl of coming and go- 
ing for many following days. There were — chief 


130 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


events — the daily races at Washington Course. Miss 
Winter’s uncle being one of the stewards, she affected 
a superior knowledge on the comparative merits of 
Fan Tail and Jolly Tar, which involved herself and 
Nell in the payment of more gloves than they liked 
to remember, until I had lost to them a compensatory 
number of some ridiculously small size and “of York 
tan, be sure and remember.” Cousin Betty disap- 
proved of wagers, except, perhaps, a small sixpence or 
twelvepence at whist. She also disapproved of the 
throng of gallants that followed us about everywhere 
and of the “ unlady-like” act of running to look out at 
windows, of which, despite Mrs. Hamilton’s precepts, 
both girls were guilty. Tom Broadacre was here for 
the week, and as genially devoted to Nell as though 
he now met her for the first time. 

Then there were engagements my father made for 
me and himself to dine with old friends, and club sup- 
pers in the long room at the Carolina Coffee House, 
with much drinking of toasts and singing of “ Araby’s 
Daughter” and the like. The St. Ursula gave a ball, 
where my father said in jest that the club was so 
named, doubtless, because there were eleven thousand 
virgins wandering about in its hall not knowing what 
should become of them. So numerous were the en- 
gagements between the ladies and so often was I sent 
for Dorothy, or so often went for her, that I deserved 
well of the city for helping tread down the foot-path 
through Lightwood Alley leading to her uncle’s, and 
an old iron lamp hanging over a gateway there became 
as familiar an object as the library chandelier at home. 
I was disposed to refuse my escort on shopping tours 
until I found the “ Franklin’s Head” book-store on King 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


131 

Street was just next their new milliner, Miss Carmen, 
at the sign of the Double Gold Heart. The book-store 
was a pleasant enough lounging-place, and I have 
skimmed through the reviews and one or two new books 
from London, while they were in raptures next door 
over taffeta ribbons and thread-lace tippets, and plumes 
and flowers, and lovely gold-sprigged muslin, and gros 
de Naples, and open-work silk stockings, and Leg- 
horns and Bantams; which terms if I get wrong ’tis 
not Cousin Betty’s fault, who invariably appealed to 
my taste on the way back in the coach. She also left 
it to me to choose at the Franklin’s Head some an- 
nuals or books of beauty, which works have not now 
the vogue they then possessed. She wished to give 
them as Easter tokens to friends in the country; and 
desirous of pleasing her, I just took all I could find; 
and then the ladies exclaimed at the size of the pack- 
age. 

“Good heavens!” cried Dorothy, turning them over 
when it was opened. “ What will you do with all these, 
Miss Sherwood? There is ‘The Pearl,’ ‘Affection’s 
Gift,’ ‘Friendship’s Offering,’ ‘The Gem,’ ‘Keepsake,’ 
‘Winter’s Wreath, ’ ‘Summer’s Blossoms, ’ ‘Spring Flow- 
ers,’ ‘Fall Leaves,’ ‘All Seasons,’ ‘The Token,’ ‘The 
Amulet,’ ‘Cupid’s Album.’ How many are there?” 

“ My dear Anthony,” cried my cousin, fluttered, “I 
only wanted two or three.” 

“ Never mind,” said I imperturbably, “ ’twas my pur- 
chase, and you may do what you like with them.” 

“Let me have this one,” said Nell, laughing, “‘The 
Keepsake;’ it has such inviting contents: ‘The Torn 
Hat, ’ ‘Charity, ’ ‘The Cottage Door,’ ‘The Robber of 
the Rhine,’ ‘The Coquette,’ ‘The Vale of Arcady. ’ ” 


I3 2 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“And I will take ‘Cupid’s Album,’ ” cried Dorothy; 
“but what are these two little ones? ‘Cobwebs for 
Flies’ and ‘Limed Twigs to Catch Young Birds,’ by 
Jane and Ann Taylor.” 

“Oh, those I bought myself,” said Cousin Betty, 
confused. “ I thought, Anthony, they might be useful 
for Castor and Pollux.” 

I could not help laughing. ’Twas little my Castor 
cared for reading. I had scarcely seen him since 
bringing him down, and my frequent long absences 
from the hotel gave him an abundant leisure for his 
own pursuits. I had begun by a ceremonious threat 
of flaying him alive in case the patrol caught him out 
after St. Michael’s nine-o’clock bell and tattoo and I 
had to redeem him from the guard-house. But he 
had coaxed me into giving him a pass, and was hardly 
to be found at the hotel now, except for a short while, 
at my toilet. 


CHAPTER XII. 


The chief event after this was to be a grand fancy- 
dress ball to be given at a friend’s on Broad Street, in 
whose spacious rooms Washington had once stepped a 
minuet. For this affair Dorothy, who said my educa- 
tion had been much neglected, was giving me prepar- 
atory lessons in the “ Spanish Dance,” for which Elea- 
nor played an accompaniment on a cracked old harpsi- 
chord resurrected from Mr. Winter’s garret, her smiling 
face turned over one shoulder to see us. My father 
coming in once on this little scene said he hoped 
“Lalla Rookh” would not be incongruous enough to 
dance a Spanish dance. As he was not going to this 
ball, Miss Winter went up with Nell to put on her cos- 
tume to show him, and came down resplendent, though 
not dark enough in complexion for her part, he said 
truly. Everything Oriental was just then the rage, 
however, and ’twas certainly Lalla Rookh’s misfortune 
if she was less fair than Dorothy. My father looked 
at the dazzling vision with his usual fatherly admira- 
tion, tempered with an ironic smile. 

“ Cniflavam religas comam , simplex munditiisV' he cried, 
and she answered pouting: 

“ Lalla Rookh may as well dance a Spanish dance as 
listen to Latin compliments.” 

“She is so sure ’ tis a compliment,” said I; but in- 
deed ’twould have needed an artist and a poet to de- 
scribe the effect of her shimmering golden gauze falling 

133 


134 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


away from snowy arms, or caught by jewelled belt 
around the slender waist, and of braided tresses de- 
scending, twined with pearls, below the knee. 

“Is she not lovely, papa?” cried Nell, running up 
to him. “ I must have something Eastern, too. How 
would you like me in sleeves a la Sultane and a Cir- 
cassian turban ?” 

“I like you quite well as you are,” said he, with 
absent kiss. And when they left us he asked me to 
take a short stroll with him on the Battery. When 
we came out on Atlantic Street, his limp was more 
evident than usual and he seemed weary, so I offered 
him my arm. His taking it was only a form, he 
leaned so slightly, but he was pleased to do it, I could 
see. ’Twas a dreary, cloudy evening, scarce any one 
on the Battery, and as we walked up and down by the 
eastern wall a misty rain dimmed the air. The water 
was running in gray, white-capped waves, over which 
a gull rose and dipped. And looking outward, Castle 
Pinckney, the far shore of Sullivan’s Island, the Hun- 
dred Pines, and the palmettoes on James Island were 
veiled in mist. 

“I had letters from Doubleday this morning,” he 
began. “ They were satisfactory as to the place and 
the hands, but I wonder, Anthony, if he has not too 
much to look after. He is an industrious fellow, who 
gives really too much of his own time to me, and 
I would not like to take advantage of this.” 

“There is Miles,” said I, but he interrupted. 

“ Is Miles there much or at all ? From these letters I 
should say not, so slightly is he mentioned. Some 
disquieting reports came tome through private sources 
while I was in Washington, but I choose to hear noth- 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


135 


in g of my sons save from themselves; not” — quickly, 
as I opened my lips to speak — “ not from each other. 
I appreciate your scruples.” We walked a few mo- 
ments in silence. Then he said abruptly: “ You are 
going to this ball, of course. Will it be as Feramorz, 
by any chance?” 

I colored hotly, which I would not have done a week 
ago, though as secure in my strength now as then. 
The truth was there had been some jesting about my 
taking the part — Cousin Betty considering that there 
should be a prince for the princess — and as Miles was 
not here ’twas mine naturally, and Dorothy’s silence 
had seemed to sanction what might have been ill-ad- 
vised. I was glad, then, to be able to look my father 
full in the eye and answer: 

“No, sir, I had no intention of taking the part. If 
Miles had been here, ’twould have been his.” 

“And he should be here,” in his decided tone, “in 
attendance on his betrothed.” 

He took my arm again, which he had dropped for 
a moment, and went on with an indescribable soften- 
ing of his voice: 

“ My dear Anthony, my second self, for you and your 
fine sense of right I would answer with my life. But 
there are battles in which there is nothing to gain and 
a timely flight saves deep and deadly wounds.” 

I would have turned haughtily enough on any one 
else speaking so, but ’twas actually a relief to deny 
nothing, but to lean there with him on the railing, 
and have the spray blow in our faces, and watch the 
sea-gulls skimming and wheeling, and wonder mechan- 
ically how long it would take the mist to swallow up 
the island opposite. Only I felt, from the heaviness 


136 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


at my heart, as though the wound he spoke of had al- 
ready been dealt me. He gazed out over the gray 
foamy water with an abstracted look and spoke in a 
lower tone. 

“ I knew a man once, young, ardent, impetuous, 
sent from home to finish his studies in England. But 
before he left an engagement with a young girl, still 
at school, had been arranged, largely by the respective 
families. ’Twas a frequent custom at his university 
for the men to run down to any good performance at the 
London theatres. And once, taken by a friend, be- 
hind the scenes at the Surrey he met a woman ” 

here he paused a moment, going on again, “ a girl, not 
beautiful, perhaps, but different to him from any one 
he had ever met, and who was one of the brilliant Mrs. 
Jordan’s troop. Unlike the others, she had a gentle 
timidity and refinement far removed from the ordinary 
stage manner. And he recognized this so completely 
that though meeting her first amid the glamour of thea- 
tre surroundings, he soon avoided the theatre entirely, 
seeing her only in her own quiet home where her 
mother lived. I think he was unconscious how the in- 
terest of his whole life grew to be divided between her 
and his studies, though sometimes ridiculed by class- 
mates for his abstinence from their amusements, until 
a letter from home awoke him to the truth. It told 
him how his young betrothed, averse to society and 
considering herself in every way bound to him, culti- 
vated the domestic arts and prepared herself to make 
him a happy home; and the writer congratulated him 
on the future possession of so much beauty, sweetness, 
and domestic worth. He had this letter in his pccket 
at his next visit, but had not yet spoken, when, all 


in old st. Stephen’s. 


i37 


pale and trembling, she told him what she had often 
tried to say before: that she had been married very 
young to a worthless brute, who only appeared some- 
times to threaten and take most of her earnings. 
’Twas the temptation of his life, seeing her sweet face 
white and feeling her little hand cold, to plead that 
she would take refuge with him for always. But he 
told her of his own bond and said, ‘We must part,’ 
and she whispered ‘Yes ’ with pale lips. ’Twas only 
after a long wandering about on one pretext or other, 
during which he heard of her death from a cold taken 
in some provincial barn, that he had courage to return 
home and redeem his promise. I don’t know” — • 
breaking off with a sort of laugh which was more like 
a sob — “why I tell you this old story, which no one has 
ever heard before, unless to show you that none of us 
are as solitary in our trials and experiences as we be- 
lieve. ” 

I pressed his hand gratefully in return for a confi- 
dence which it cost him so much to make, and neither 
of us spoke for awhile. Then I said cheerfully, “You 
would be better pleased with Woodhurst letters if I 
were there to take some of the burden off Doubleday? 
I can start in the morning.” 

“Act entirely according to your judgment, Anthony; 
but your influence has always been great with Miles, 
and I have been annoyed about him lately. Why 
need he so exceed his allowance as to desire to rarise 
money irregularly, which Doubleday refused to do for 
him when last in town? Oldfield, too, knew about it, 
in the way of business, from a money-lender offering 
him the paper. He might better have applied to me 
directly to increase his income, though I have done 


138 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


v 

so twice and cannot see how his expenses can be so 
great. ” 

I did not feel called on for a comment, but offered 
again to leave at once, and then if Miles chose he 
might come down. 

“Very well, then. If not, I can escort the ladies 
home, or some friend will be going that way. I have 
nearly made up my mind not to return to Washington. 
Matters there are running so high that I must either 
go against my own convictions or relinquish the valued 
friendships of a life-time, neither of which I am will- 
ing to do.’* 

And our talk drifted off to matters political and 
kept us walking up and down in the mist until night 
set in. 

’Twas with surprise and disappointment Cousin 
Betty and Eleanor met my announced intention of 
starting early next morning for home, and would only 
reluctantly carry a few words of adieu I left for Doro- 
thy and an excuse from the party to the play that even- 
ing, which was to see Mr. Wallack in “The Rivals.” 

My dear brother, though little expecting to see me 
at Woodhurst, and already preparing to go out, was as 
warmly delighted with my sudden appearance as my 
heart could desire. He instantly hung up his hat again 
on the rack, and called lustily for Chloe, Lucinda, 
Daphne, Nubilia, and a host of others, to serve me up 
a hot supper directly, under various appalling penalties, 
while Castor disappeared into the kitchen with Pollux, 
to show off town airs and boast, like a Gascon, of town 
conquests. 

During the meal and afterward Miles sat beside me, 
hearing with genuine delight of my enjoyment in the 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


139 


trip, of the girls’ triumphs — who could have doubted 
his devotion to his lady, however malign the influence 
which kept him from her, who saw his face glow when 
her name was mentioned? — of my father and cousin’s 
health, of various friends. Of news here, he said, 
there was little to tell. One or two dances which he 
had not attended, a cock-fight in the yard of The 
George, a club-supper, a race between the Overstreets’ 
Leander and his roan, Peterkin, the roan winning. 

“ And how was it you tired of town ?” 

“ Doubleday wanted me to see some trees at the 
Roost, before giving orders for their cutting down; 
the races were over, and my father is there to escort 
the girls.” 

I imagined there was a slight disquiet on his face 
at mention of my father, but could not be sure, for 
Northcote, tired of waiting for him at the tavern, came 
in now, veiled his surprise, and possibly annoyance, 
at seeing me, under some civil inquiries, and went off 
again when he found Miles would not go, after tell- 
ing me, in answer to my question, that his mother was 
still very ill, and more than ever dependent on Mrs. 
Doubleday’s services. 

“ An excellent sort of person for her position,” he said 
carelessly. “Hardly companionable for my mother, 
being without early advantages, but quite useful.” 

“Doubleday is so much in love with work,” Miles 
remarked after he had gone away, “ that he leaves that 
poor young woman too much alone, and I’m glad Mrs. 
Northcote has a fancy to have her with her.” 

“ Now that I am here he will have more leisure; and 
you, too, Miles, if you care to go down to town and re- 
turn with the party.” 


140 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“Well, you see,” embarrassed, “I would, of course, 
have gone down before, but Northcote held me to my 
engagement to give him his revenge, as I had just won 
largely. And he cannot get away now, and is, be- 
sides, a little hard up for funds. He has entire au- 
thority on the place, but being left dependent on a 
woman is a hardship. And ’ tis easy to get into money 
scrapes!” 

“You find it so?” I could not help saying. 

“Anthony,” he interrupted violently, “I will not 
have you preaching to me, who are my junior. Not 

another word! ’Tis enough that my father ” then 

he stopped, and said in his usual tone: “Come now, 
let us talk about something pleasant. Let us talk 
about Dorothy.” 

I went down with him next evening to The George, 
a pleasant ride through the starlit night. 

The tavern, a great wooden building with low 
shelving roof, and many lights twinkling, was inviting 
enough when we reached it. Its swinging sign bore 
an effigy which had been called The Royal George, 
before the colony had repudiated that stout and elderly 
Hanoverian. The tavern-keeper, being, like Mrs. 
Gilpin, of frugal mind, though he changed the name 
to The George Washington in republican times, kept 
the same sign, which was made to do duty for the 
Father of his Country, with the royal arms painted out 
on the reverse side and a Union flag substituted. The 
place itself had been called The George in colonial 
days, and was still so called, though with different in- 
tention. It had a wide porch in front, and dogs lying 
there, who barked drowsily at us and went to sleep 
again, and many horses were tied to the trees around. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


141 

Inside, the low raftered ceiling and bare floor were 
illuminated by a roaring fire of huge oak logs. Near 
this Colonel Milton, with some others of the elders, 
was preparing for a game of whist, and in the mean 
time he was finishing some story, good, no doubt, 
from the applause which followed, but calculated, for 
reasons, to turn the air blue. Long pipes were in de- 
mand and snuff-boxes circulated. The waiters were 
busy arranging tables with cards and candles for par- 
ties at seven-up and carrying bottles of wine hither and 
thither, or tumblers of hot and strong rum-punch for 
those who preferred it. Miles and I were speedily 
included in different parties. 

Richard Northcote did not make his appearance 
until the evening was well advanced, and then came 
in frowning. He went from table to table, leaning 
on the players’ chairs and making a few small bets; 
and after a while took the hand of a player who was 
leaving. He was near me, and I inquired for his 
mother. 

“Oh, complaining, complaining as usual,” in an im- 
patient tone. “She says she is very ill,” then noting 
Miles’ gravity as well as my own, he cleared his brow 
and proceeded with forced gayety. “I am ill myself; 
that is, with vexation. What is the matter with the 
mails, or is the highway here still unsafe? I fail 
every week or so to get letters which I find have been 
sent me. ’Tis a cursed shame for things to be so mis- 
managed.” 

“Your servants maybe c^jless,” said I, selecting 
my card. Mrs. Doubleday, whom I had met half a 
mile out on the mail-road that very day, had mentioned 
to me, somewhat confusedly, that she trusted none of 


10 


142 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


the negroes when she expected a letter, but walked out 
herself to meet the mail-coach. 

“ No servant who has been with me more than a 
week is ever careless,” said Northcote calmly. 

Midnight was the hour for closing the tavern, and 
long before this most of the elder men had gone home 
to bed. When twelve struck the other parties began 
to disperse, and good-nights were exchanged on the 
porch and front path before riding away. The land- 
lord walked through the rooms, and Richard North- 
cote having said something to Miles about tfcartt, to 
which my brother assented, said to the tavern-keeper, 
giving orders for closing up, “We will need but one 
table, Fitz, a fresh pair of candles, and a bottle of 
Madeira. ” 

Fitz, accustomed to their late hours, gave these or- 
ders, and leaving a sleepy waiter in charge went to 
bed. I could not help thinking that Northcote, at 
first annoyed at my presence, took now a malicious 
pleasure in showing me how easily Miles would yield 
to the double fascination of the game and himself. 
I stood silently by while the cards were cut, dealt, 
and the first hand played. The stakes were pro- 
fessedly small, but I had long known that this was a 
mere cover. 

“Now is your time to bet, Anthony,” cried Miles 
with a laugh, but I did not choose, and crossed the 
room to overlook a few lingering seven-up players. I 
could from there, with less appearance of watching, see 
the hearts table. 

Luck was with Miles at first, and repeatedly he 
claimed the points and the vole . Very often, too, 
he drained his wine-glass. Northcote swore that 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


143 


Fitz kept right good Madeira and cursed his churlish 
doctor, who would let him have but a glass at a 
time. After a while Miles made some poor play, 
and the tide turned. ’Twas easy to see that my 
brother could never play long against Northcote. In 
this game, requiring perfect command of feature, his 
frank countenance was at disadvantage, compared 
to Northcote’s impenetrable expression, still further 
concealed by his heavy mustache. “ J' ai la pointe , 
monsieur, f ai la vdle ,” I heard him say quietly, more 
th^n once. A sudden thought came to me. What 
could be his motive for selecting Miles so persistently 
and continuously for his much-flattered companion at 
play, where there were so many young fellows at hand, 
of large means and eager enough to learn from a master 
of e'cai'tel If — if it could be that paying clandestine 
court to Dorothy, whose beauty appealed to his senses 
rather than his cold heart, who was an only daughter 
and an heiress besides, he might hope so to involve 
Miles as to bring him into disgrace with her parents 
and his. The game of seven-up ended and the players 
left. I, too, would go, unquiet and irritated. I could 
do no good by remaining. 

“I am going now, Miles. I’m sleepy.” 

“I’ll go, too,” he muttered; “wait a minute.” 

“Getting alarmed for your patrimony?” said North- 
cote, raising his eyebrows in an irritating smile. 
“Then let your brother take you home; but you lose 
your chance of retrieving losses. I must return to 
Paris, I see, to find a player of any nerve.” 

“You might go to a farther and warmer country,” 
said I, with a polite bow, “before you could find a 
player equal to yourself.” 


144 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


He half started up, a look of furious anger trans- 
forming his face; then, with wonderful self-control, 
sank back instantly and rejoined with perfect coolness: 

“ I appreciate your compliment highly, and cannot 
but admire your acquaintance with foreign lands.” 

“What are you talking about?” cried Miles im- * 
patiently, with whom his first remarks had had their 
effect. “Of course I will play you another game, or 
two, if Anthony will wait.” 

He was soon deep in the game once more. I scorned 
to make any further attempt, under Northcote’s eyes, 
at breaking it up; so, rousing the negro boy, now 
sound asleep on a hall bench, to bring my horse 
round, I rode home. My brother came in two hours 
after, perhaps; for although in bed I was still awake 
when he looked in at my door, saying: 

“Not asleep, Anthony?” and entered. Even by 
firelight he looked haggard. “Well,” he commenced 
with a sort of laugh, “ my luck never changed. I 
lost all I had and five hundred more, which I have 
not and don’t know where to get.” 

“ I have that much on hand which I can certainly 
let you have.” 

“ ’Tisgood of you,” turning to go, then coming back 
quite close to the bedside. 

“ I wonder,” with a sort of bravado, “ what Matthew, 
Mark, Luke, and John will think of my confession. I 
staked my chestnut mare against his bay, and lost that, 
too; and then in an effort to win all back I lost — Pol- 
lux. ” 

“ Good God, Miles!” I cried, sitting up straight, “ can 
you seriously mean it or has the Madeira gone to your 
head? If you must displease my father so deeply, why 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 145 

was it not one of the others? But Pollux — your Pol- 
lux — ’ tis incredible !” 

“ Softly; ’tis not quite so bad as you think. I was 
near quarrelling with Northcote at the mere sugges- 
tion until I found what he really meant. ’Twas only 
that the chestnut I had lost — m3 7 favorite under saddle, 
you know — that against him I should stake the owner- 
ship of Pollux for a month; actually only his services 
for that time, that he might give a few lessons in hair- 
dressing, which he learned down in Charleston, to 
Northcote’s fellow.” 

I said not a word more, for ’twas easy to see under 
Miles’ careless manner how deeply he felt it, and what 
a bitter moment ’twas for him next morning, when 
Pollux, most reluctant even though his stay would be 
temporary, rode over on the chestnut to Oakland with 
Mr. Miles Ashley’s compliments to Mr. Northcote. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


’Twas inevitable that this matter, talked of in the 
neighborhood, should to Miles’ detriment be known 
to all our family, and Dorothy, too, if they returned 
before the month was out. I would have said this to 
Miles, but thought that he would either attach no sig- 
nificance to it as regarded Northcote, or else, in the 
rare fierce anger of a gentle-mannered man, would sus- 
pect more than I knew of his intimate friend, which 
extremity, in view of Mrs. Northcote’s illness, would 
be untimely; so I devoted myself to work, and coming 
and going constantly had the satisfaction of seeing 
Miles relieve Doubleday of many tasks of supervision, 
and, forsaking the club-room for the present, spend his 
leisure at home or visiting. 

Colonel Milton, never opening his lips about the 
rumor he must have heard, took to coming over every 
evening, saying, “ Sacre-bleu ! The George had been 
but a pis-aller for him during the ladies’ absence, 
which d — d if he could stand any longer.” And his 
whist and his stories helped amuse Miles and Castor 
as well. 

Stopping at the overseer’s cottage, about a week 
after this, to look over some accounts with him, I 
found his wife there, she having left Mrs. Northcote a 
trifle better. She was writing at a table, and when I 
entered, pushed the paper, which looked as if she were 

146 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


147 


practising a copy, into a drawer. She was probably 
improving her handwriting, and with a flush of eager- 
ness on her cheek looked very handsome, though with 
a furtive and underbred expression always. She re- 
mained in the room while we went through the ac- 
counts, and when the overseer was called out on the 
porch by one of the hands, some talk outside ensued, 
and Doubleday came back, appearing excited. 

“ Mr. Ashley,” he said,“ here is a piece of news I reck- 
on your brother will be uncommon displeased to hear. 
Mr. Northcote has been taken very sick after some cof- 
fee Pollux carried to him in his room, and the doctor 
saying ’twas the effect of poison, the fellow has run off 
and cannot be found.” 

“ Pollux!” I cried; “ why, ’ tis impossible! He is a 
lazy boy, but cowardly and very good-natured. He 
would not hurt a fly, and Mr. Northcote has treated 
him well. ’Tis some lie!” 

I heard a sort of smothered sound behind me at this 
moment, and Doubleday, running forward, caught his 
wife, white and gasping, as she was falling in a faint. 
She presently recovered on a window being opened 
and water given her, and said weakly that she was 
over-tired from night-watching with Mrs. Northcote. 

“To be sure, ’tis enough, and I must run in like 
a fool with such talk,” said Doubleday ruefully. 
“Women are so different from us, Mr. Ashley, and I 
fear I’m but a rough man to have charge of one.” 

I left the good fellow fussing over her with sal-volatile 
and such stuffs, and went up quickly to the house. The 
news was already known, as could be told by the visible 
excitement of the house-servants, their whispering in 
corners and anxious looks at me. I went up, three 


148 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


steps at a time, to Miles’ room, and there was Castor 
on his knees before him, wildly blubbering. 

“ O Mas’ Miles, you know my brudder Pollux, dat he 
ain’t de boyfer do such a ting! O Lawd! what he bin 
run off fer! O my Lawd! O my Christ! ” and more 
lamentations. 

“ Silence, Castor ! not another word. Go down to the 
kitchen this moment. Have I not enough to worry 
me without you ? Go.” 

“Well, lemme put on yo’ boots den, Mas’ Miles,” 
scrambling up — he waited on us both during Pollux’s 
absence — to help Miles with the boots he was hastily 
drawing on. 

“No, go at once! Well, Anthony, what do you 
make of these reports about my poor fellow ?” 

“ Nothing,” briefly, “until you or I have ridden over 
to see.” 

“I am going now,” and within ten minutes he was 
riding out of the avenue with a countenance ten years 
older and graver than that he wore this morning, riding 
about the place with a jest and a laugh for every pick- 
aninny he met. He did not come back until night, 
when the kind colonel was sitting with me, his old face 
as anxious as my own. 

“ Northcote is much better,” he said, at once drop- 
ping tiredly into a chair. “ The antidotes have taken 
effect and he is entirely out of danger; will be about 
in a day or two, the doctor says. His mother is now 
the worse of the two. Her foolish maid gave her an 
exaggerated account of her son’s illness: he was dying 
and so on, and she has had a very bad attack. The 
household is in great confusion, and there was no pos- 
sibility of getting any information about my poor boy. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


149 

If he would only come here and trust to me! I would 
not believe the whole world against him.” 

“ Why might not some one have tampered with the 
coffee before he carried it?” suggested the colonel. 

“ I asked that talkative maid of Mrs. Northcote’s, 
and she said that Dick had given his own body-servant 
a pass to visit his people in the next parish, and Pol- 
lux had sole charge of preparing over a spirit-lamp 
and taking in the cup of coffee which Northcote drinks, 
in French fashion, in bed mornings.” 

“He’d better take a julep,” growled the colonel, to 
hide his sympathy with Miles’ distress, which presently 
became so great, at thought of what trouble his own 
passion for play had brought on his childhood’s play- 
mate and attached henchman, that he went away and 
left 11s to be alone. 

In a few days Northcote was out again, his mother 
remaining very ill; but nothing was heard of the fugi- 
tive, though an active search was prosecuted for miles 
around. The week after came a letter from my father 
which read: 

“What is the meaning of the advertisement I send 
you, cut out of the morning paper? I do not remem- 
ber that any of the house-servants at Oaklands was 
named Pollux. The description answers to Miles’ boy, 
but of course that is a mere accident. 

“ The ladies have let one engagement after another 
detain us here, against Jupiter’s earnest protests, as 
he prefers his own commodious stables to even the 
Rising Sun, which is certainly a little crowded. The 
old fellow has some excuse for grumbling just now, for 
he is not very well, having a painful rheumatic seizure. 


in old st. Stephen’s. 


150 

I think I shall let him drive me to Woodhurst on 
Thursday. Mr, Winter, who travels that way shortly 
to visit his brother, has kindly offered to take charge 
of our ladies, his coach being very roomy, and as they 
seem disposed to linger yet, Betty and Nell will stay 
at his house on Zig-Zag Alley until then,” etc. 

The advertisement inclosed, and headed by a rough 
cut of a darkey running, with bundle on stick over his 
shoulder, was as follows: 

“Ran away, the 15th instant, from Oaklands planta- 
tion, on the Santee, negro boy Pollux, 5 feet 3 inches 
high, pleasant face, very plausible. Black jacket and 
trousers, check shirt, and hat covered with oil-cloth 
of a dark green color. Fifty dollars reward.” 

I handed the letter to Miles, and he broke out vio- 
lently at what he called Northcote’s outrageous haste. 

“He might have left the matter to me,” he cried. 
“The boy must be hidden in the neighborhood, and 
when he turns up he may very well leave him to his 
master to examine and punish; especially considering 
how he came to be with him and only for a time.” 

Much as I felt for him, and for poor wretched Pollux, 
too, the circumstances would certainly justify some 
rigor on Northcote’s side. So I drew Miles’ attention 
rather to my father’s coming at this most unpropitious 
time. 

“ ’Tis most unhappy,” he said in a subdued tone, 
“for — for, Anthony, he is already displeased with me. 
Some letters of his from Washington I thought too 
hard and I have not written him since, and he has 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. I 5 I 

good cause to be vexed; and now this wretched busi- 
ness. I cannot be absent now, for that poor boy’s 
sake, or I would like to go away.” 

“Not you, Miles!” I said with energy; “I know you 
better. ’Twould be more like you to go and meet 
him and tell him about it yourself, before any distorted 
account reaches him.” 

But from this he shrank, and would only consent, 
after some hesitation, to write my father a very frank 
and manly letter, for which I hastened to bring candle, 
seal, and wax, and offered to ride a few miles to meet 
the coach and deliver. 

Thursday proved a gray, dull-looking day, and my 
heart was not very light as I rode on this commission. 
I went much farther than I had expected before a turn 
in the high-road brought the coach into view, coming 
slowly on with, strange to see, my father up on the 
box, reins in hand. He recognized me immediately 
from afar off, and called out resonantly : 

“Must I stand and deliver, Mr. Highwayman?” 

“Stand and deliver your reason for driving,” I an- 
swered. “Have you left Jupiter in town?” 

“Oh, no,” calmly; “he is lying down in the coach. 
He was sick when we left and grew worse on the road.” 

And, sure enough, there was Jupiter, comfortably 
propped among the cushions of the big coach, enjoying 
his misery with many groans where his master had in- 
stalled him, while he himself mounted the box. I 
quickly tied my horse behind the coach and scrambled 
up beside my father to take the reins. After some un- 
important talk on both sides I led up to my unpleasant 
story, which he heard without a word or change of 
countenance, and held out his hand at the end for 


152 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


Miles’ letter. This he read through slowly, taking 
his time, and only saying once, when in my impatience 
I touched up the horses: 

“Softly, softly! Do not forget poor old Jupiter’s 
rheumatism.” 

When he finished he folded and put it in a pocket, 
and then turned to me, with his own slow smile: 

“ The hand, indeed, is the hand of Esau, but the 
voice is the voice of Jacob. Nay, then” — as I was 
about to disclaim — “ Quis tantus furor ? I will not say 
the voice, but the inspiration. Be that as it may, the 
foolish boy is not to be reproached, for his punishment 
has come.” 

Nor was there any severity, but great gentleness in 
his manner to Miles when he turned to greet him, after 
giving orders for Jupiter’s removal to our hospital. 
And seeing how he brooded he did not utter one word 
of reproach, but gave him good hope that his Pollux 
would return and the charge against him be fully in- 
vestigated to the establishment of his innocence. The 
first hint I had that the fugitive was anywhere above 
ground came from my Castor when undressing me that 
night. He shut the door and locked it, with exagger- 
ated precaution closing the curtains, keeping me 
meanwhile waiting. 

“ What are you about ? what is the matter with you ?” 
I cried impatiently. “Come here at once and hand me 
the brush. Do you think any one is lurking round to 
carry us both off ?” 

He came close and whispered: 

“ Does yer tink, Mas’ Anthony, dat ’tis safer fer dat 
boy dey’s huntin’ to clar outen de country, or des to 
lay low whar he’s ’quainted wid de land?” 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


153 


“ See here, Castor,” said I, lowering my own voice, 
but speaking impressively. “Don’t tell me anything 
about your brother’s hiding-place if you know it. 
But get word to him secretly, mind, that he had better 
trust himself to Mr. Miles if — mind, if he is innocent, 
as I believe. That reward offered in the paper will 
cause a more vigorous search for him.” 

“Dat’s what I done tink; dat’s what I done know,” 
Castor said tremulously, fumbling with the clothes 
he was hanging up. “Dey’s out agin from Oaklan’ 
lookin’ fer ’im, an’ dat yaller gang-driver, Scipio, 
ober dere, dat hates him, at de head ob de crowd.” 

I don’t know if he contrived to get my warning to 
his brother or not. If so, ’twas too late, for the pur- 
suit ended tragically for Miles’ poor servant the very 
next night. My brother, after some restless wander- 
ing about after supper, had decided to go over and 
inquire for Mrs. Northcote. My father and I stood 
on the piazza, I with a cigar, admiring the evening, 
still and beautiful, whose appearance I can never for- 
get; for a phenomenon occurred in the heavens which 
was described in all the papers of the country on the 
following day. My father was murmuring, looking at 
the starlit sky, “ Pleiadas, Hyadcis, clavamque Lycaonis 
Arctonf when an extraordinary meteor, with the ap- 
pearance of a flying star, darted suddenly across the 
heavens from the south-east to che north-west. A 
stream of light accompanying appeared, to the eye at 
least, two or three hundred yards in length, of great 
breadth and dazzling brightness, which, illuminating 
the earth, drew attention to the meteor showing against 
the brighter light like a silver cord. 

While we gazed in fascinated amazement, I heard the 


154 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


avenue gate clang and some loud talking and exclaim- 
ing in the direction of the quarters. Cato came running 
toward the house and said breathlessly to my father: 

“ I jes year, massa, dat Scipio’s gang done fin’ Pollux 
in de ma’sh, an’ some say dey shoot him/' 

I seized my hat from the antlers, vaulted over the 
rail, and sped down the avenue with Cato. The negro 
seemed as apprehensive as myself, and we ran side by 
side every step of the way toward Pollux’s hiding- 
place, which he evidently knew. He turned off about 
a mile this side of Juba’s hut and plunged straight 
into an impenetrable-looking thicket full of thorn- 
bushes and tangled vines, which threatened to trip us 
up at every moment; and afterward striking the edge 
of the swamp, ’twas only his thorough acquaintance with 
every foot of the land kept us from sinking waist-deep 
in the treacherous morass. Skirting it here and there, 
’twas not long in reality, though it seemed so, before 
the light of torches and sound of voices came to us. 
They proceeded from a sort of island in the swamp, 
on which were standing some huge cypress trees. At 
the foot of one of these the torch-light showed a 
prostrate figure, lying with head propped on gray moss 
heaped together, the blood welling out from an ugly 
hole in the neck. The negroes, holding pine torches, 
moved to let us pass; one of them, Scipio, the sulky- 
looking mulatto driver at Oaklands, leaning on a gun 
and looking defiant. I saw ’twas our poor Pollux 
there, with life-blood flowing and eyes shut. 

Cato whispered that he had been hiding out in the 
swamp ever since the trouble, making his sleeping- 
place in the hollow trunk of this huge tree, where Cas- 
tor and the others brought him food and bedding. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


155 


Castor was there now, kneeling on the ground and 
weeping aloud, and I think ’twas scarce a minute be- 
fore Miles and Northcote broke through the under- 
growth into our midst; Miles’ clustering locks matted 
on his damp brow and his face fixed and stern. 

“Who did this?” he cried, standing over Pollux. 

“ Fo’ God, Mas’ Miles,” said the mulatto Scipio, 
growing ashy with terror, “I didn’t tink ’twas him! 
We was out coon-huntin’ an’ I tuk him fer wild-cat in 
de holler tree.” 

This was a lie, I knew, though he picked up and 
showed to any one who would listen how a piece of 
bark had been ingeniously fitted by the dying servant 
into the opening, thus preventing a sight of whatever 
made the dogs bark. 

“He know ’twan’ no wild-cat,” muttered Cato. 
“He come out fer fin’ him.” 

But only I heard Miles, having knelt beside the 
wounded man, calling: “ Pollux ! Pollux !” He opened 
his eyes at the familiar voice and tried to smile. 
Miles groaned. With his surgical knowledge he saw 
that the boy had but a few minutes to live. 

He spoke in his ear, “ I know that you did not put 
that stuff in the coffee, Pollux! Who did?” 

“Put — ’im — in, Mas’ Miles — she gib — me money. 
Nebber know’d pizon — till doctor — git skeerd — an’ 
run ” his voice failed him. 

“Tell me that you forgive me, my poor boy, for 
letting you leave me.” 

Pollux made a last effort and muttered: 

“Nuttin’ to forgive, best o’ massas, Mas’ Miles,” 
and with a long look at Castor, sobbing, and at Miles, 
he closed his eyes forever. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


If Miles had actually killed his faithful boy with 
his own hand, he could scarcely have suffered more 
than he did at this time. He heard the mournful 
Methodist hymns the negroes wailed over the body 
down at the quarters, and stood over his grave, with 
face and manner of deep grief and self-reproach. 

Rejecting with something like violence the idea of 
training any other of his slaves to fulfil his former ser- 
vant’s duties about his person, he would never after 
have a valet, accepting only the share of Castor’s at- 
tentions which I pressed on him, though at first my 
boy’s likeness to his dead twin brother caused him acute 
pain. And never while he lived could he be induced 
to touch a card again — except once — except once. 

So far no light had been thrown on the occurrence at 
Oaklands; the circumstance of a gold-piece being found 
in Pollux’s pocket, even in connection with his last 
broken words, being of no help. Though we were all 
most anxious to prove his innocence and on the alert 
for evidence of it, the subject, for Miles’ sake, was 
tacitly avoided, and everything done to restore his 
cheerfulness. ’Twas of much assistance in this that 
the ladies returned shortly after, as all my father’s 
thoughtful, pleasant talk, the colonel’s company, and 
my silent sympathy were but clumsiness itself in com- 
parison to woman’s helpful tact in bridging over a 
painful time and situation. 

i5 6 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


157 


We had music now constantly in the evenings, and 
Dorothy came over often. She impressed me as being 
a little cold with Miles, but very gentle and more quiet 
in manner and womanly, which became her wonderful 
beauty as every new mood did. We were all around 
the piano one evening, when Richard Northcote was 
announced. He wished to speak with Miles, with 
whom he was shut in the library for a time; then came 
in, and bowing, stood hat in hand. 

“I have been telling Miles, Mr. Ashley,” he said in 
his usual low tone, “ of my deep regret at his loss, 
which only my mother’s precarious state has prevented 
my coming over before to express. I believe the 
shooting was an accident; but even if ’twas mere 
clumsiness on Scipio’s part, and though he is a valu- 
able driver, I prefer to part with him, and shall send 
him down to Charleston this week to be sold, which is 
all I can do.” 

“ ’Tis too much if ’twas an accident, and a d — d 
sight too little if ’twas not!” growled the colonel in 
an undertone which I think Northcote heard, for his 
eyes gleamed. 

“ You have suffered in this matter too much to speak 
of amends,” said my father with grave courtesy. 
“Will you not be seated?” motioning to a chair. 

“ Thank you, I have but a moment. My horse is at 
the door. Unless, indeed, I can be of service in rid- 
ing beside Miss Winter’s chariot on the way home. ” 
He had looked over to her before, as if to note the ef- 
fect of his speech and manner. 

“ I am greatly obliged,” said Dorothy, “but I am to 
remain with Nell to-night.” 

I looked at her, too, searchingly, perhaps, for though 


158 


in old st. Stephen’s. 


’twas Eleanor’s eyes which followed him out, hers 
met mine, so large and dark and defiant they made her 
face look strange, and she went to the piano and sang 
a French song he had taught her, and which he might 
have heard riding along the avenue. 

My father returned to Washington for a few weeks 
now, and then retired from political life finally; the 
nullification excitement being allayed for the present 
by a species of compromise. 

“The evil day of a final settlement of this matter is 
only deferred,” he said to me. “ If it be not now, yet 
it will come; but perhaps I shall have then gone to a 
country whose government is perfect.” 

The family moved on the approach of hot weather 
to a summer village situated higher up the country 
and in a hilly part, where the breezes blew healthfully 
over the pines. Most of the planters of our neighbor- 
hood moved there and remained there until the first 
frost brought them back to their plantations, forming 
here, during the summer, a little community whose 
habits were simple, intimate, and friendly in the ex- 
treme. 

After a very early breakfast those who owned estates 
anywhere near would ride to visit them, otherwise to 
hunt perhaps, game being plentiful. Later, domestic 
and public affairs were discussed leisurely at post-office 
or village store. At one o’clock, dinner; and after- 
ward, during the long, still, drowsy, golden afternoon, 
a siesta was taken so generally that a stranger coming 
in might have thought it the enchanted domain of the 
Sleeping Beauty — as it was of more than one. Then 
tea before the sun was down, and the piazzas became 
reception-rooms, where guests came and went from 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


*59 


house to house. The young girls in their white gowns 
formed many charming groups, which on the darkest 
nights were brightly illuminated, for in front of every 
house ’twas the custom to have a great yard-fire of 
light wood and pine straw constantly burning, around 
which the children laughed and sported. A servant 
with a lantern was all the escort fair visitors actually 
required when returning home at eleven o’clock, 
though gallantry usually provided others. For gen- 
eral amusement there were the assemblies and private 
card and dancing parties, the races, and, last of all, 
the Jockey Club ball. 

For me this was a return, in habits and surround- 
ings, to some of childhood’s happiest hours. But I 
soon found ’twas with a man’s heavier heart and more 
unquiet mind. My restlessness grew on me, and ’twas 
after one of the assemblies that I made up my mind to 
leave this scene of simple sylvan delights. 

Dorothy had made a laughing bet with Miles in my 
presence — her gold smelling-bottle against I knew not 
what — that I would not ask her for the Boulanger. 
“For Anthony is not very polite to me,” she said with 
pretended plaintiveness in which there was a curious 
inflection. 

And ’twas my place to see the young beauty home 
afterward; and going about with a serenading party 
that night later, ’twas to me she had chosen to fling 
some deep-red roses she had worn in her dress when 
we sang under her window. And I thought of my 
father’s words about battles where there was nothing 
to be won. 

“What ails you, Anthony?” complained Cousin 
Betty when she found Castor packing my traps. “ Why 


160 IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 

should you go rushing about when ’tis so vastly pleas- 
ant here?” 

I told her to betray the secret to no one, but I had 
been bitten once by a tarantula and could not keep 
still. Whereupon Eleanor opened her blue eyes, and 
Cousin Betty would have frowned but did not know 
how. 

I roamed all over the mountains of West Virginia 
for some two or three months now, which doubtless 
benefited me in health, though Castor advanced as 
plea for his own return to home comforts my loss of 
flesh. However that might be, the earliest fall days 
found me travelling along the road to Woodhurst, where 
the others had preceded me. With something of my 
father’s dislike of the hurry, heat, and noise and 
crowd of the novel mode of travelling by steam, I 
journeyed at my leisure, and partly by coach, partly 
on horseback, passed over hill and dale, letting the 
October beauty of earth and sky deliver to me the part 
of their message which was mine. 

Riding homeward, the road led me past Oaklands, 
and bidding Castor go on, I turned in there to inquire 
for the invalid. Unlike Woodhurst, this place had 
two front gates, from which, instead of one great ave- 
nue, two went curving, and met at a large flower-bed 
just before the house. The quarters and all other 
plantation out-buildings were well to the rear and en- 
tirely out of sight on entering, and about the great 
house itself reigned that air of quiet and solitude nat- 
ural to a place where the long-continued illness of the 
mistress had precluded all hospitable entertainment. 
So quiet was it and so still the air that as I slowly 
turned a curve in the avenue and came suddenly in 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. l6l 

sight of two persons standing quite near me among the 
trees to the left, a few words fell distinctly on my 
ears. 

“She is only playing with you, anyway,” said a 
female voice, Mrs. Doubleday’s, angrily, with a taunt- 
ing laugh, “and he will find you out soon, and then — 
I reckon he has already. ’Twas his boy gave you 
that stuff.” 

“My dear Letitia,” drawled Northcote, “don’t ex- 
cite yourself; ’tis not becoming to your style. The 
man you speak of is a gentleman and would take his 
revenge differently. But what could you know of a 
gentleman’s habits?” 

“What, indeed!” she cried, freeing herself forcibly 
from his half-contemptuous caress, “ since ’tis you I 
have known best for a year or two. You promised me, 

you swore ” She caught her breath, then with an 

ominous- change into a quiet tone: “If you keep on so 
— if you lie to me — you will have cause to repent, I 
tell you!” 

He looked at her, frowning, then smiled again care- 
lessly. I had checked my horse mechanically on first 
catching sight of them, but touched him now with the 
spur that I might hear no more. Before they saw me, 
however, a loud cry from the house called their atten- 
tion, and Mrs. Doubleday ran swiftly through the 
shrubbery and disappeared through a lower door. He 
followed her at some distance, going hastily up the 
piazza steps, where his mother’s maid stood wringing 
her hands and calling to him. 

Mrs. Northcote was dying, they told me, and while 
I waited outside she breathed her last. I sent in a 
message of condolence. Mr. Northcote could not see 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


162 

any one, so leaving offers of service, I rode on to 
Woodhurst. 

The heaviness all this imposed lifted itself on near- 
ing the far different atmosphere of home. A group of 
loving, welcoming faces met me at the gate of Wood- 
hurst, Castor having heralded my coming. He now 
took my horse, and I walked up in the midst of a con- 
fused chorus of question and answer, joke and laughter, 
only Cousin Betty being a little absent in manner. 

“ I am monstrously concerned/’ she told me, ‘‘about 
Daddy Peter’s pickaninny. The colonel’s Primus gave 
him a box of Flugger’s Pills to play with, and the child 
swallowed twenty before he was noticed.” 

“Good heavens!” I cried aghast; “he must die!” 

“Oh, no,” said Cousin Betty, “they get over worse 
things. But ’twas too foolish in old Primus. I wonder 
any of Peter’s children live to grow up anyhow, their 
mother is so careless and unkind to them. One of the 
smallest fell in the mud the other day, and the others 
screamed to her: ‘O mammy! Jimmy fall een de dut 
an’ blin’ he eye.’ She went up, and as the crying 
child scrambled to his feet, gave him such a cuff as 
nearly sent him down again, saying fiercely: ‘Who tole 
yer fer fall een dedut? who tole yer fer blin’ yo’eye?’ 
I have to watch them all the time to keep the children 
from being ill-treated.” 

She sighed and showed a little furrow in her brow. 
I could but think, as often before, how much responsi- 
bility and care the good soul bore, yet was ever cheer- 
ful and found time for social hours with family and 
friends. 

’Twas no light task in those days to be mistress of 
a large plantation with as many slaves as ours. The 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


163 


entire care of the women and children, the old and 
sick, fell on her, with supervision of house and kitchen, 
store-house, pantry, smoke-house, and hospital. And 
the supplies of food, clothing, and medicine to be or- 
dered and given out. No grocery or bakery near to 
order from, either; but most articles of food made on 
the place, from hams and sausages to the most deli- 
cate cordials and confections. And without the sew- 
ing-machine of later days there was the clothing for 
two or three hundred people to be cut out by her and 
made by hand of seamstresses taught, superintended, 
and often helped actively. And outside all this and 
more provision for material comfort, to feel a constant 
anxiety for their spiritual welfare, and to be mistress, 
judge, friend, kindly and conscientious adviser to all 
these souls. I have often taken off my hat reverently, 
in spirit, to my cousin as she trotted briskly through the 
house, key-basket on arm, on one of her thousand mis- 
sions; and I now took the liberty of kissing her plump 
little hand, at which she smiled again, well pleased. 

She with the elders was grieved when, once in-doors, 
I told the news from Oaklands. They remembered 
Mrs. Northcote as a pretty young girl, but we, from 
her long seclusion, felt less acquainted with her than 
with the other heads of families in the neighborhood. 
All the country-side attended the funeral and sat 
afterward in the sombre, unfamiliar parlors while some 
wonderful Madeira was handed about. ’Twas here, I 
heard it whispered, that the deceased lady’s will had 
not been found, which would be awkward for Richard 
Northcote, as, never having been legally adopted, the 
next of kin could then claim everything. 

“ She would never have done him such injustice as 


164 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


fail to make a will,” I said to my father in the coach 
going home, “ after his being in actual authority over 
everything for so long.” 

“Oh, she certainly made one,” said he. “Oldfield 
tells me he came from Charleston expressly to draw it 
up for her, and ’twas duly signed, witnessed, and 
sealed in his presence; and it made Richard North- 
cote sole heir. He offered to take charge of it and 
lock it in his safe for her, but she preferred to keep it, 
and now no one knows where ’twas hidden. He will 
stay a few days longer, until a more thorough search 
is made, though it has been carefully looked for al- 
ready. If ’tis not found ’twill be a great misfortune 
to Richard Northcote, for if I judge him rightly he is 
not one to declare : I lie digit potens sui Icetusque , cui licet 
dixisse , in diem vixi. However, he has still a chance.” 

“He is so clever,” cried Miles, with unfailing loy- 
alty, “ that he can always make his way, and he has 
friends who will gladly help him.” 

Eleanor pressed his hand and looked her approval 
softly; but I could see that my father, like myself, 
suppressed comment, the time being unpropitious. 

Some days after this, while the search was still going 
on at Oaklands, Tom Broadacre came up from Edisto 
to the Overstreets’ for some shooting, and dined at our 
house one day. He seemed to remember not at all the 
untoward incident of his last visit, was in the highest 
spirits, and amused my father mightily by the absurd 
anecdotes he contributed to the general entertainment. 
Among other things he pleased him by avowing entire 
liberality in religious matters, which was always a 
great virtue with my father. 

“Why, sir,” said Tom, “those narrow views are 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


165 


taught even in the nursery. There was the old man 
in Mother Goose who wouldn’t say his prayers. They 
took him by the left leg, you remember, and threw him 
down the stairs.” 

“Upon my word,” said my father, smiling, “that’s 
a flagrant case of religious persecution which I had 
never thought of before.” 

There was, perhaps, an unusual amount of cheerful 
talk and laughter at this dinner, for Miles, just before 
entering the dining-room and holding Dorothy by the 
hand, had announced that she had at last fixed the 
wedding-day for Christmas Eve, at which there was 
great congratulating, and my brother looked, for the 
first time since Pollux’s death, his own joyous, hand- 
some, gallant self. Dorothy, in short-waisted gown 
of blue and silver, a silver comb holding high the 
frolicsome silky locks, was beautiful, as always. And 
if she seldom spoke ’twas not noticed, under cover of 
Tom Broadacre’s rattling talk. 

“Why do you not drink your wine, Anthony?” 
called Cousin Betty. “And fill Dorothy’s glass. 
’Twould do her good. I never saw either of you look 
so pale as to-day.” 

“Are you tired, Dorothy?” Miles asked anxiously. 

“Not at all, not at all,” she said with impatience. 
“Listen to Mr. Broadacre.” 

Tom had just produced a newspaper poem, cut out 
for our benefit, he declared, which was entitled: 

NEW BOOTS. 

These boots were never made for me. 

They are too short, by half; 

I want them long enough, d’ye see, 

To cover up the calf. 


1 66 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


Why, sir, said Last, with stifled laugh, 

To alter them I’ll try. 

But if they cover all the calf, 

They must be six feet high. 

“ He was the calf, d’ye see? That’s the point. Six 
feet high. Ha! ha! ha! is not that good ?” 

“ Are you sure that’s the point?” asked my father. 
“ ’Tis so subtly expressed one cannot be certain.” 

“Why, of course. Six feet high. It must be that. 
Ah, now I see you’re making fun of me, Mr. Ashley. 
But ’tis a good joke.” 

My father, calling him an ingenuus pue7\ a mark of 
high favor, said to me afterward that he was pleased 
to note, under the young fellow’s high spirits, a courte- 
ous deference to ladies and his elders. “ I am told he 
is likewise most industrious,” he continued, “and per- 
haps Sir Henry Saville was right when he said: ‘The 
wits are mostly in Newgate; the steady, plodding men 
get the prizes. * ” 

’Twas when we were rising from table that a note 
was handed Nell, beside whom I stood. 

“What is this?” she asked, puzzled, and I glanced 
at the beginning, over her shoulder: 

“ I delay not a moment in offering felicitations on 
the happy event which insures to a friend a day when 
he will obtain, as bride, one so fair, so devoted, so true 
and constant ” 

I drew it quickly from her fingers and looked at the 
address. “’Tis for Miss Winter,” I cried, handing it 
to her, who read and threw it into the fire, her back 
turned to us. But there was no reason to complain of 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


167 


her lack of color or of gayety for the rest of the even- 
ing. The girl was in the maddest spirits, which, 
seconded by Tom Broadacre, involved all in a whirl 
of merriment. She sang, she played piano and flageo- 
let; she insisted on all the most rollicking choruses 
and dances, where she took Tom, awkwardest of men, 
for her partner, and finally induced the colonel and 
Cousin Betty to dance, very slowly and stiffly, part 
of a minuet to her accompaniment; then played a 
favorite melody of my father’s, a cha?ison of Handel’s 
in G major which made his keen eyes grow dreamy 
and sad. After which she caught up the flageolet again 
and, personating the Pied Piper of Hamelin, stepped 
up and down the length of the waxed parlor floors 
in her little blue velvet and silver shoes, fire-light and 
candle-light sparkling on her shining hair, playing 
the sweetest, quaintest minor air, and followed, 
surely, by each one’s eyes, at least. I wondered if one 
on our place, having the gift of fern-seed, would report 
this as well as the day’s event. And oh, with what 
rapture my brother watched her every motion! 


CHAPTER XV. 


I had not forgotten the words overheard by me at 
Oaklands suggesting ideas on which I meant to act as 
soon as I had thought over the best method of doing 
so. ’Twould be useless to expect Mrs. Doubleday to 
criminate herself, and the poor boy who knew all was 
gone. If, on the other hand, the result of the attempt 
was a shock to her, as from her fainting on news of 
Northcote’s danger it might be so, then he, still re- 
taining influence over her, would not, for his own sake, 
permit her to tell what she did know. I might have 
consulted my father’s keen judgment, anxious as he 
was to clear Pollux, but the one fact of which I felt 
certain was sure to arouse his just indignation and re- 
sult either in his enlightening Doubleday or at least 
in his sending him and his wife away. And this, if 
the mystery was to be discovered, would be unadvis- 
able for the present, certainly. 

I saw her often at the cottage, going about the little 
duties in her self-contained manner. She stayed in- 
doors much since Mrs. Northcote’s death, was more 
listless and paler than formerly, and I was surprised 
once or twice to find her usually downcast eyes fixed 
on me with an expression something hard and wild. 
Once, too, I chanced to be looking in at our forge 
while the blacksmith was shoeing my horse, and heard 
one of the little negroes go up to the cottage and say: 

168 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 169 

I gin him de papah, Mis* Doubleday, an’ he say 
dey wan’t no answer.” 

After a pause of a moment or two, “ No, Pompey,” 
said her voice, very low, but with a peculiar tone, “I 
guess it didn’t need any. ’Twas ’bout Mis’ Northcote’s 
keys; and here’s sevenpence for you.” Shortly after 
this she went out, cloaked and hooded, as if for a walk, 
and the dogs went gambolling and barking about her as 
was their custom with any one belonging to the place. 

’Twas an hour or so after this as I was riding along 
the road, thinking again of the clearing of Pollux’s 
memory, a matter so dear to Miles, that the thought 
of old Juba came to me, and I wondered I had not re- 
membered him in this connection before. ’Twas a 
vegetable poison had been administered to Northcote, 
the physician had declared, and who but he, in this 
neighborhood, had much knowledge of poisonous herbs, 
with, according to report, a will to use them ? I turned 
my horse’s head, without a very clear notion of what 
I intended, and went once again the dark and lonely 
way toward his hut. Once again, at the very point 
where I had formerly seen a pair of lovers, I now saw 
one figure, Mrs. Doubleday’s, alone. She leaned 
against a tree, her back turned, looking in the opposite 
direction, her cloaked form scarcely distinguishable 
against the dark cypress foliage, the long waving 
streamers of Spanish moss hanging between us. As I 
looked, she seemed to make up her mind that she would 
wait no longer, and, gliding in and out of the under- 
growth, was presently lost to view. 

The old voudoo doctor was sitting in his door-way, 
where some rays of sunlight fell on him, mumbling 
toothlessly to himself. 


170 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“Well, Juba,” I cried sharply, to attract his hear- 
ing, dull from age. He looked in every direction but 
the right one; but at last his small, clouded eyes, 
hardly discernible in the wrinkles, turned my way. 
“Let me in, Juba,” I said, “I want to speak to you 
inside.” 

“Nobody here, nobody here, all ’fraid o’ poor old 
Juba. Tink him debbil,” with a weak chuckle. 

I went up close to him so that the horse’s skull 
grinned at me from inside. 

“ You know what you offered me once — a love-charm. 
I will take it now and here is money.” 

The old creature grinned horribly another ghastly 
smile at sight of the coin, though surely it could be 
of no use to any one in this dismal swamp, and rising 
difficultly and with groaning, tottered inside and I 
followed. Besides a wretched heap of pine-straw, with 
ragged coverlid, some bones, dried herbs, and the 
skull, there was nothing but the snake, indeed, which 
reared its flat head from the pine-straw. With infinite 
delay and uncouth muttering he found and handed me 
one of the bottles. Then, looking hard at him and 
still holding out a handful of money, I whispered: 

“And, Juba, some of the other kind, you know, the 
kind you use for an enemy — the kind that Pollux used 
— you remember.” Instantly his iace fell into some 
semblance to the snake’s, mere specks showing for eyes 
amid mottled, dirty-black coloring. 

“Who Pollux? Nebber know Pollux. No odder 
stuff Juba hab.” And he persisted in this until I lost 
patience and changed my tone to one of threatening. 
But this found the mummy equally impracticable, and 
I was forced to leave without the slightest clew and 


in old st. Stephen's. 


171 

followed by malignant looks from the miserable creat- 
ure’s dull eyes. But what proof, after all, had I to 
oppose to an obdurate denial ? and ’twas merely pre- 
sumption that he held the information I longed for. 
My visit to him was in every way fruitless, as the 
“ love charm,” on analysis, proved to be compounded 
of herbs, an excess of which caused headache, other- 
wise innocuous. 

Doubleday went down to Charleston the next week 
on plantation business, and while he was away we 
were invited to a dinner-party at the Overstreets’, 
given in honor of Miles and Dorothy. All went from 
our house before four o’clock, the hour mentioned, ex- 
cept myself, who sent an excuse, on the plea of extra 
work at the Roost which would detain me too late, 
but that I might come over in the evening. I was 
unable to do so, however, for before sunset the sky 
was obscured by thick dark violet and greenish clouds, 
which massing together in banks soon took on a 
uniform smoky tint and began to come down in a rain- 
fall, pattering lightly and fitfully at first on roofs and 
tree-tops, but later in a steady, drenching down-pour 
which hid the landscape in a sheet of water. The 
wind, too, rose after dark and howled about the chim- 
neys and house-corners, and slammed shutters vio- 
lently, and drove the rain in gusts against window- 
frames. Castor and Cato waited on my solitary meal, 
and then, after shutting and barring up for the night, 
retired to the kitchen, whence I heard above the wind 
an occasional squeak of fiddle or sound of Castor’s 
jigging or singing. With the swift forgetfulness of 
his race he had nearly recovered from his brother’s 
death, and now came in fitful snatches his voice: 


172 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


Oh, my Chloe Ann, 

Oh, my Chloe Ann, 

Come f’um de washin’ tub, 

My own dear miss ; 

Oh, come wid a johnny-cake, 

An’ come wid a hoe-cake, 

Come to your true lub, 

An’ come wid a kiss.” 

The great log-fire shone brightly on the andirons 
and roared up the library chimney; the branched 
candlestick stood just in the right position to light 
my book; the book was “ Hamlet ;” my arm-chair 
deep and comfortable; the storm without made a pleas- 
ant accompaniment to my reading, the rain dashing 
against the shutters. Yet I found my thoughts wan- 
dering to the Overstreets’. I knew that in such weather 
no guest would be permitted to leave their spacious, 
comfortable roof until the morrow. Dorothy would 
be there. Would she be in white or in the blue and 
silver? She would sing, I knew. I could see her now 
at their harpsichord, with its high upright top, inlaid 
with ivory, for a background, candles on the brackets 
shining on her lovely dimpled arms, not hidden by 
their short puffed sleeves, moving up and down the 
yellow keys. It was not likely she would sing that 
song of Northcote’s — she only did that once out of 
defiance and would not meet my eye afterward. And 
she would not play the flageolet this evening, for that 
she only did at home and here, and if one disapproved 
he still felt that so a divinity, playing at shepherdess, 
would pipe and draw all hearts to her. 

Then, bethinking myself that ’twas of little use to 
stay from the house that held her if I let a vision of 
her find me out here, I took up my book and fixed my 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


173 


mind upon it. ‘‘How noble in reason! how infinite 
in faculties! in form and moving how express and ad- 
mirable!” I read aloud, when I heard a knocking at 
the hall-door which must have been repeated before it 
reached me through the storm. I went out into the 
hall, and pushing back the bolts threw open the door, 
letting in both rain and a gust of wind, which made 
the candles in the hall-sconces flicker, and extinguished 
the one which I had set down on a chair. 

“ Great heavens! Mrs. Doubleday,” I cried as I closed 
it after the figure without had stepped in. “ Why do 
you come out in such weather ? You must be drenched !” 
For indeed the moisture was shining on the long cloak 
and hood she wore. “Come in to the fire,” I said, 
leading the way to the library. 

“No,” she said, “I am not very wet; I ran all the 
way,” and added something confused about some 
medicine needed for one of the hands. 

“If you mean for Peter,” I said gravely, “ ’twas a 
pity you came out. Miss Sherwood sent it over to the 
quarters before she left.” 

She did not answer, but shrank back before the bright 
lights at the library-door, saying the rain from her 
dress would spoil the rugs, and she would go into the 
dining-room instead. I went before her, seized the 
tongs, and with some vigorous thrusts that sent sparks 
flying reanimated the fire, which was low, and then 
lighted the candles on the mantel-piece on either side 
of the portrait there; she standing quite still, only 
panting a little as though yet breathless from her haste. 
When I turned from the candles I was shocked to see 
her. She had been out in the rain long enough to be 
drenched, her thin gown adhering to her, the wet 
12 


174 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


dropping from her cloak to the floor. The wind had 
whipped some long locks of her flaxen hair about until 
they hung moistly and raggedly against her dark hood, 
which, drawn down on her forehead, made her face look 
startlingly white. And her light-blue eyes had a 
strained, reckless look* while her thin lips, slightly 
parted, showed her teeth between. I pushed a great 
leather chair, always standing at the angle of that fire- 
place, toward her, but she merely shook her head, so 
I also stood at the opposite side of the hearth waiting 
for her to speak. 

She began in a gasping voice, waiting now and then 
to take breath, “ You’d hardly ha’ believed that I 
could get so wet between the cottage and here, Mr. 
Ashley. What d’you think o' my havin’ been over to 
Oaklands to-night?” 

“I should think you were very imprudent,” I said, 
looking seriously at her. 

“ In more ways than one, you think. Or maybe you 
think — for I know your pride — what is it to you,” with 
a forced laugh, “where I go.” 

“You are mistaken, Mrs. Doubleday,” I answered. 
“ I think it a pity you should risk your health in such 
weather.” 

“ Well, at any rate,” she said wildly, “ you are kinder 
than those who are not so proud. Not too proud to 
notice and flatter and coax even a girl like me, an’ then 
keep you waitin’ hours for a sight o’ them or their 
message; an’ it never comes till your heart dies in 
you, and then make it live again with a word, just 
to get you to send them news or serve them some way 
with other people. And at the end, what? You go 
through such a night as this to try, on your knees, for 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN S. 175 

the old kindness, an’ get a drawlin’ answer, ‘If you 
were half as tired o’ me as I am o’ you you wouldn’t 
be here, an’ I trust ’ tis for the last time. In any case 
I will not see you again, an’ will now wish you good- 
night, ’ with a beautiful bow, oh! a beautiful bow,” 
and she broke into a laugh not pleasant to hear. 

” Mrs. Doubleday,” said I, “I will not pretend not 
to understand you, but if you talk so freely your hus- 
band must hear of it, and then ” 

“I know that you will never tell him an’ I don’t 
care if you do! I don’t care for anything! Oh, my 
God! I wish I were dead!” 

“You are very young; you have an honest, good, and 
steady husband,” I said gently after a few moments* 
pause. “ When you both leave Woodhurst, which must, 
I am afraid, be at once, you will, when far from here, 
after a while understand him better; and for his sake 
ask Heaven for something better than death.” 

“Yes, he is a good man, an’ I am sorry about him,” 
she said absently, as if scarcely listening; then, seem- 
ing to divine my wonder that she should have talked to 
me in this way, she said keenly: “There’s something 
I can tell you that you’d ruther hear than ’bout me. 
An’ ’twas that I came to talk ’bout, hearin’ you was 
alone here to-night an’ knowin’ what you went to 
Juba for. Oh, I saw you down in the cypress swamp 
when I was waitin’ for some one else. But I didn’t 
let on, for ’twan’t no use, an’ I knew you’d get nothin’ 
from the old nigger. Oh, I see you take an interest 
now, for I know you, Mr. Ashley, an’ the store you 
set on your brother. I’ve watched you an’the rest too, 
many a time, when you never gave a thought to the 
overseer’s wife, an’ I’ve stood outside there, many an 


176 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


evenin' ” — with a gesture toward the piazza — “ an' 
seen through the window another two than you an’ me 
stand under this very picture that looks so like you, 
passin' notes an’ talkin’ a word or two secret ” 

“Stop!” said I firmly. “I do not care to listen to 
you about affairs neither yours nor mine.” 

‘'Twas my affair!” she cried fiercely, “an’ oh, I 
know ’tis yours rnore’n you choose to tell. But I will 
not say one word against her, not if it vexes you; an’ 
I reckon ’tis nothin’ that a lady should be makin’ eyes 
to one an’ singin’ to another, an’ goin’ to marry an- 
other ” 

“ I shall have to leave you, Mrs. Doubleday!” 

“No, no, not another word, then. But I’ve seen 
you so kind to the horses an’ dogs that I felt I must 
talk about myself; for oh, I’ve been so lonely, so 
lonely, an’ wantin’ company of my own age. You 
must think me a wretched creature, but you can’t tell 
what ’twas to me here, with Francis older an’ so quiet 
an’ away so much, an’ seein’ young people cornin’ an’ 
goin’ an' laughin’, an’ me with no one to talk to but 
the hands. Your cousin was kind, an’ his mother 
that’s gone; an’ then he came so soft-speakin’ an' 

pleasant, an’ now ” with another wild outbreak, 

“but he shall repent it! he shall repent it to the last 
day of his life!” 

“ Mrs. Doubleday, ” I said very earnestly, “if you 
can tell me anything that will clear away suspicion 
from the character of my brother’s poor negro who was 
killed, both Mr. Miles Ashley and I will be deeply 
grateful to you and will be glad to help you any way 
we can. ” 

She looked so completely exhausted here and unable 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


1 77 


to speak another word that I again asked her to be 
seated while I went into the library for the keys, to 
get her a glass of wine. I had not taken notice of 
where Caesar had placed the keys when going off, and 
it occupied several minutes to find them. When I re- 
turned to the dining-room she was seated in the arm- 
chair gazing fixedly into the fire, her hands folded on 
her knees. I brought from the sideboard a glass of 
wine, which she drank, and then I waited for her to 
speak. 

“What should you say,” she commenced abruptly, 
“ if a woman, seein’ the man she cared about beginnin’ 
to tire of her, an' thinkin’ her eyes an’ hair he used to 
praise so much nothin’ but dirt compared to another 
woman’s that he hoped to get — yes, an’ her money, 
too, when he would cut out her sweetheart — an’ then 
hearin’ all the niggers talk about a wonderful voudoo 
that could make love-charms, to put a few drops in 
one’s drink an’ he would love the woman that ’twas 
made in her name forever, an’ better than the whole 
world; an’ then, not bein’ able to go for it herself, 
the lady she was nursin’ bein’ so sick, an’ not trustin’ 
any of the darkies on the place, she should hire a 
nigger that she knew, that was there for awhile, to get 
it for her? He was afraid to go, for Juba had said 
he’d cunjur him; but she gave him money an’ he got 
the stuff, an’ fer more money, when she told him what 
’twas for, he put it in the coffee. An’ when it turned 
out to be poison, the boy ran away scared out of his 
senses, an’ when he was shot, the woman dared not 
tell. What should you say to that?” 

“Oh, vana superstitio /” I groaned to myself, “which 
cost poor Pollux his life!” Then to her, “ I should say 


i 7 8 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


that for her there was always the risk of Juba’s 
telling.” 

“He will never tell! An’ all I can get from him is 
that Pollux must have taken a wrong bottle from his 
hut, as he keeps to kill rats with. He might ha’ 
meant to get the boy into trouble, or he mightn’t see 
well with his bleared old eyes; but nobody’ll get 
nothin’ from Juba.” 

“ ’Tis not too late for some slight reparation at least, 
Mrs. Doubleday. Let me write down your account and 
you can sign it,” rising to get pen and paper. 

“ Stop one moment! Have you thought what this’ll 
mean to me? I said I didn’t care about that, an’ I 
don’t. But you must give me more time. I’ll sign 
nothing to-night. Wait till to-morrow, when you’ll 
hear from me. An’ thank you for your patience in 
listening to me.” 

I saw ’twas useless insisting on the point just now, 
and I lighted her out. When another gust burst in 
with the opening of the hall-door I closed it again. 

“ I should have remembered how long you have been 
in wet garments. I will call one of the servants to 
shelter you with an umbrella on the way over.” 

She laughed recklessly. “I couldn’t get much wet- 
ter,” she cried. “ Naught never comes to harm.” And 
drawing the hood over her face, one long wet light 
tress streaming behind, she went out into the night and 
storm. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


The wind had subsided next morning, but the rain 
still fell in hopeless, heavy-looking sheets that bl&Ued 
out the landscape and hushed every sound of life out- 
doors with its own ceaseless drip and plash. The dis- 
mal, monotonous down-pour seemed to preclude, for 
evermore, all such possibilities as the joyous outburst 
of the mocking-bird, the chirp of the locust, the rustle 
of dry leaves under the squirrel’s scurrying feet. And 
its dreary monochrome looked as though no sparkle of 
sunshine nor blue sky nor tender hue of flowers had 
ever been or could ever be enjoyed by a gray and 
drenched and miserable world. 

For all that, or because of it, the sun rose the 
following dawn on a day heavenly fair as the Southern 
late autumn can boast of ; newly-washed and fresh, the 
land rejoiced. Evergreen leaves sparkled in the sun- 
light thick with rain-drops. The gray moss banners 
waved in the cool breeze. From every hedge came the 
hum of insect or twitter of birds, and in the poultry- 
yard the noisy tribe crowed and clucked congratula- 
tions the while they shook out and dried their dank 
plumage. 

I walked down the avenue after breakfast with some 
half-thought of seeing Mrs. Doubleday, from whom no 
word had come the previous day. There was no smoke 
rising from the cottage-chimney, but as I drew near 
179 


180 IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 

the door opened. To my surprise ’twas the overseer 
who looked out, and seeJrng me came down the steps. 

“Why, Doubleda.y,” said I, “how did you get hore 
in all this deluge ? You must have swum!” 

“ I got through in town sooner than I reckoned on, 
and start ecj/'bef ore the rain. Then I was obliged to 
put in a X the Half-way House till Twas over; and 
finished my journey here since daybreak.” 

“ And are looking so troubled now over what damage 
the overflow in creeks and river will have done on the 
low plantations? Cheer up — it may not be so bad.” 

“There’ll be damage enough, Mr. Anthony, especial- 
ly in Sandy Bottom, though not so much as before the 
bank was built. But ’twas not that I was thinking of. 
’Tis my wife, who isn’t at home an’ hasn’t slept here. 
Will Miss Sherwood have sent her anywhere, do you 
reckon ?” 

“No,” said I, at once; “she was here night before 
last. I spoke to her myself, and Miss Sherwood has 
not been home since. Perhaps she has gone for an 
early walk. Have you asked your cook ?” 

“They tell me she was away all yesterday, and her 
bed hasn’t been slept in for two nights. Where could 
she go to in yesterday’s rain?” His rugged face wore 
a look of anxiety. “ Has she been sick, Mr. Ashley?” 

“ She was not sick when I saw her, and you are wor- 
rying yourself unduly. She will probably come in 
soon. If not, go yourself or send any of the hands 
you choose to inquire. I can give all necessary orders 
on the place to-day.” 

“Thank you, sir. I’ll scold her well for going out 
in such weather,” moving off with a hurry new to him, 
and I saw him no more that day. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 1 8 1 

I was much occupied all the forenoon, the swollen 
creeks having done some harm in the lower plantation 
and at Buzzard’s Roost, but much less than would 
have happened before the construction of an embank- 
ment there, just finished after ten years’ labor. When 
I was returning to dinner the party came back from 
the Overstreets’, bringing Dorothy with them on her 
way home. Nothing would do Miles but she must 
come in and inspect the contents of a box just received 
from town. ’Twas of carved sandal-wood, and proved 
to contain many pairs of wonderful long Limerick 
gloves, in white and York tan, silver embroidered, or- 
dered by him and made expressly for her. Then, of 
course, to see if they fitted, one pair must be tried on, 
to the admiration of Cousin Betty and Eleanor. 

'‘How well they will become the fair hands of the 
fairest bride in the world,” cried Miles with a lover’s 
ardor. But the beautiful wearer of the gloves neither 
smiled nor blushed, but drew them off quickly, looking 
a little paler. He rode home with her after dinner, 
carrying the box with almost the care for anything 
belonging to her that his grandfather would have shown 
for the precious living charge riding on the pillion 
behind him. 

“What is this I hear?” my father asked me now, 
looking troubled. “ Doubleday has been to me for fur- 
ther leave of absence to seek his wife. She is away, 
no one knows where, nor has she sent or left any 
message for him. She is not likely to have friends 
in the neighborhood, do you think, not known to him 
or us? She seemed a quiet, good sort of girl, or — or 
— have you ever heard anything against her, Anthony?” 
Had there been any guilty responsibility resting on 


1 82 IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 

my soul I do believe his keen dark eyes, though per- 
fectly trustful, would have drawn forth a confession 
that instant. As it was I simply said: 

“ I do not know, sir, where she is or why she is not 
at home. I saw her evening before last, when she 
had been out in the storm and was dripping wet. I 
advised her to seek dry clothing and a fire, and have 
not seen her since. Some of the servants would be 
more likely to have news of her.” 

“ He seems to have made thorough inquiry all over 
the place; even going to that old man Juba, whom, it 
appears, she is not afraid to visit. Ah, well,” in a 
lighter tone, “she will doubtless turn up in a day or 
two to laugh at him for his pains. Perhaps she has 
made a little journey somewhere, being tired of the 
loneliness and monotony during his absence. Vanum, 
et mutabile , you know, and I have sometimes thought 
we might do more for the poor thing.” He had been 
invariably kind and interested in her. “ If she had 
been just a thought more educated, she might have 
helped teach the negroes, but ’twas only lately she 
taught herself to write, as I discovered accidentally. 
And she is not very industrious, have you remarked? 
’Tis a pity Doubleday thought of marrying, a man 
with his talent for work, and I hate to see a good 
fellow harassed. But she will be back all right.” 

In my secret soul I inclined by no means to his 
optimistic view, remembering the reckless excitement 
of the overseer’s wife at our last interview was un- 
doubtedly that of a desperate woman, and who could 
say to what it might impel her? ’Twas in my mind 
to tell my father this, but I deferred the disclosure 
which for Miles and Pollux’s sake must ultimately be 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 183 

made. Whether the delay was ill-judged and instru- 
mental in the after tragedy, or simply part of the chain 
of circumstances which we elect to call fate, I cannot 
say. Suffice it that at that time, with the conscious- 
ness of Northcote being an enemy, it seemed ungener- 
ous to injure a man suffering at the moment from 
fortune’s spite. Also, ’twas my idea that Mrs. Double- 
day might still, from a safe distance, furnish the proof 
of a confession of which I had no witness. And in 
that expectation I waited from day to day. 

The following morning brought a few lines from the 
overseer, still anxious, but with a hopeful note, and 
written while waiting at a tavern for his horse to be 
fed. She had been seen on foot, alone, going in the 
direction of the High Hills, and he, being mounted, 
must speedily overtake her. His theory of her wan- 
dering was that she was suffering from a feverish 
attack, her manner having been reported by the per- 
son meeting her as confused and singular. After this 
we heard no more for some days. 

The date appointed for Miles’ wedding drawing 
near, Dorothy was to go down to Charleston shortly 
with her mother for some final important shopping. 
Bandboxes and bundles were already arriving in great 
quantities and being left at wrong places and causing 
infinite searching and vexation, as happens sometimes 
even with the perfect mail system of later days. The 
conversation of the elder ladies consisted about this 
time mainly of allusions to “ taffeta,” “sarsnet,” 
“ sweet sprigged muslin,” “ satin turc,” “silver lace,” 
“ tortoise-shell combs,” “ Circassian scarves,” “ Smyrna 
crape sashes,” “gigot sleeves,” “Leghorn hats,” 
“ Grecian drapery,” and the like. Even little Eleanor, 


1 84 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


with her taste for romantic sentiment, awakened to a 
very lively interest in pearl pins and lace veils. The 
one most nearly concerned in these preparations was 
the most indifferent, showing something like a disdain- 
ful impatience when they were talked of in her pres- 
ence. Perhaps because she knew that her fairness 
depended in no wise on these gauds. Perhaps because, 
as Cousin Betty knowingly remarked : “She was losing 
her flightiness and settling down into vastly becoming 
seriousness. ” However it might be, I had small op- 
portunity of judging, being out-doors most of my time 
attending to Doubleday’s work, and leaving visitors 
to Miles, who looked handsomer every day in his un- 
concealed happiness. 

He had gone over to Fairview one afternoon, when 
immediately after our avenue gate opened again to 
admit the colonel, who came slowly through on his 
bony mule. He entered the library, paid his compli- 
ments to the ladies, chatted a few moments, then said 
to my father: 

“By the way, Ashley, there’s a tree of yours needs 
cutting down, a big oak growing against one side of a 
fence and threatening to push it over, a crooked, ugly 
fellow; come out and let me show it to you.” 

I took the privilege of following the old gentleman, 
looking serious, and the black ribbon tying back his 
hair being considerably awry, a sure sign of disquiet 
with him. When we were well away from the house 
he stopped short in some inconsequential remarks with 
a sudden: 

“ This is a sad piece of news my Primus brings 
me. Didn’t like to tell you in the house before the 
ladies. I know what delicate nerves they have, and 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 1 85 

how they go off fainting and screaming at the least 
shock.” 

I could not forbear a smile at the thought of sturdy 
little Cousin Betty tumbling backward in a swoon when 
the colonel brought forth his piece of news. 

“What is the trouble, colonel?” asked my father. 

“Well, you see, I sent Primus off to Flintburg with 
a hog and some chickens for sale; and he went a bit 
of the way across the hill country, and came to a farm- 
house where poor Doubleday chanced to be, and — and 
in the market-town — surely I have the note some- 
where” — fumbling in his many pockets. 

My father courteously restrained his impatience un- 
til at last the colonel produced a crumpled bit of 
paper, then went through the lengthy process necessary 
to find and mount upon his nose his huge silver-bowed 
spectacles. 

“‘Colonel Milton, Dear Sir,’ ” he began, holding it 
out at arm’s-length, and then slowly, with something 
like moisture dimming his glasses — “A d — d cramped 
piece of penmanship as ever I saw in my life;” falling 
unconsciously into the words of the only play he knew 
by heart. 

“Give it to me, colonel!” I cried, unable with the 
haste of a younger, less ceremonious generation to 
emulate my father’s self-restraint. 

“Take it, then, my dear boy,” handing the note, 
which ran: 

“ Col. Milton— 

“ Honored Sir: When your boy gives you this, will 
you please tell Mr. Ashley that I have found my poor 
wife, to my sorrow ? Her dead body, drowned in the 


1 86 IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 

river near, was brought to me last night. The late 
rains having swollen the streams, *tis supposed that 
trying to cross on a broken bridge she slipped in. God 
knows, but I am going to carry her back to her own 
town, and will write to Mr. Ashley from there. 

“With respects to him and his family, who were 
always kind to my poor girl, I am, sir, 

“Your most obedient, humble servant, 

“Francis Doubleday. ” 

“Primus saw the unfortunate woman,” said the 
colonel huskily, “and talks till I make him hold his 
d — d tongue of her white face and long wet hair. ” 

My father and I looked at each other in a shocked 
silence. Then I made up my mind, having lost all 
hope of proof, to tell what I knew. And I related 
every particular of the dead woman’s last interview 
with me to the two elder men, who listened with the 
closest attention. At the end the colonel, with a great 
oath, swore that he always thought Dick Northcote 
inclined to evil. 

“A man who will ridicule the Father of his Country 
is capable of anything.’’ 

“You might have told me sooner, Anthony,” said 
my father with a touch of reproach, “ and I should 
have excluded him from my house. Here is another 
life lost, besides poor Pollux, and Doubleday wretched. ” 

“I had no proof, sir, until recently, and then only 
her statement without witness. She promised me 
written evidence which never came. And that you 
should exclude from your house on mere suspicion one 
I disliked, just when he was in case of being disin- 
herited and ruined, especially in view of Miles’ previ- 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


18/ 


ous intimacy, was what I did not desire the country- 
side should have a chance to misinterpret. There was 
a likelihood that he would soon leave for other reasons, 
and finally. ” 

“ ’Tis now a certainty,” said the colonel. “ Primus 
tells me the time is out for finding of the will, and the 
legal heir will soon take possession.” 

“ ’Twill be a happy riddance,” said my father seri- 
ously. “ I am glad my old friend did not live to think 
so too of his adopted son. I trust the next heir will 
have no foreign fascinations to teach the youth of St. 
Stephen’s parish.” 

“ Wrong-doing,” I ventured, “is of no time or 
place, sir.” 

“True, true,” agreed the colonel, “but about Juba, 
now” — pushing his glasses up on top of his head and 
rumpling his hair in his perplexity — “I’m afraid we 
can do nothing with him, he is so old and half-crazy, 
I think.” 

“I have tried him,” said I, “and ’tis useless. I 
fear ’tis altogether hopeless — an attempt to clear 
Pollux.” 

“I fear so,” said my father. “After Northcote 
leaves the parish you will of course tell Miles. Be- 
yond that, any agitation of the matter could only cause 
further disturbance, and we had better, colonel, for 
poor Doubleday’s sake, imitate Anthony’s silence.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Just at this point the sound of horses’ feet made us 
turn, to see my brother and Northcote riding in to- 
gether. By ill-fortune, Miles, spending the evening 
at his sweetheart’s, there encountered Northcote, who 
came to pay a farewell call and then proposed accom- 
panying Miles as far as Woodhurst that he might make 
his adieux to our family also. 

“There’s that d — d scoundrel,” growled the 
colonel, “and grinning like a Cheshire cat, too, when 
he must have heard. Well, I’ll leave you,” calling 
one of the boys to bring round Hurrah, which he 
mounted feebly. He did something of an injustice 
when he characterized as a grin the faint and forced 
smile with which Northcote was listening to Miles, 
and there could be no doubt that the long strain of 
suspense as to his fortune had given a worn look to 
features always a trifle sharp. The colonel passed 
him hastily. “Good-night, Miles — O Mr. Northcote, 
it’s you.” 

“ ’Tis I myself, in the flesh, Colonel Milton,” he 
rejoined sarcastically, looking with unconcealed dis- 
dain after the colonel’s retreating form. “Not having 
the recipe of fern-seed, I do not ride invisible. Good- 
evening, Mr. Ashley.” 

“Good-evening, sir,” replied my father, with a for- 
mality that to me, who knew, seemed freezing. He 
presently withdrew on some pretext, and sending word 
188 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 1 89 

that he was indisposed, absented himself from the tea- 
table. The guest, politely expressing his regret, evi- 
dently attached no significance to this withdrawal. 

He was in his most brilliant conversational vein, 
with a touch of cynicism which his impending enforced 
exile seemed to excuse. Cousin Betty, and even more, 
our dear Nell, gave him all their sympathy with voice 
and eyes, all the more earnestly that he made no weak 
plaints of his hard fate. 

“You know that I leave my childhood’s home and 
friends to-morrow, ‘Lord of my presence and no land 
beside,’” he had simply said at first and alluded no 
further to the blow. I must needs confess, even now, 
that the man was a fascinating talker when he chose. 
The women listened charmed. Miles, between whom 
and himself had sprung up lately a sort of constraint, 
owing, perhaps, to his having thrown off disguise in 
the recklessness born of imminent ruin, warmed to 
him as he spoke. Even I, with all my aversion to 
sitting at table with him, must have enjoyed his talk 
but for a vision that came before my sight and would 
not down of a dead woman with white face and long 
wet hair. I followed grimly enough when music was 
proposed, and Nell led the way across the hall into 
the parlor. Though in mourning, he said, and singing 
nowhere else, he could not refuse one or two songs for 
her — this last evening. 

“Not the very last! You will come back some 
time,” she said, a tremor in her gentle voice. 

“Oh, certainly, you will come back!” cried Cousin 
Betty, snuffing a candle with such vigor that she 
snuffed it out. “ Of course you will come back vastly 
fine and prosperous, your fortune made in New York. 
13 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


I9O 

I was there once for a month and everybody was ex- 
cessively rich. Except, indeed/' with a lowering of 
tone, “ a few that were very poor. I did see in the 
papers that a man starved to death in a garret not far 
from our hotel, and a beggar died in the street from 
cold. But” — recovering spirit — “ most of them are 
just rushing about from morning to night, making 
money.” 

I would have liked to ask ironically if ’twas 
thoughts of the unfortunate minority of Manhattan 
that gave that wonderful pathetic tone to his voice, or 
possibly some unpleasant memories of his own. He 
sang: 

“Oh, Richard, oh, mon roi, 

L’univers t’ abandonne,” 

then a little Norman “ Adieu,” and arose from the 
piano with an effect of studied gayety to say: 

“ I shall make you as glad to get rid of me as I am 
sorry to go.” 

“You will be back here this time next year, singing 
for us,” said Cousin Betty with conviction. 

“ I hope so,” chimed in Eleanor with soft earnestness. 

“In that, then,” thought I, looking at her, “I write a 
never,” but aloud, “Has Nell had unusual fatigue to- 
day, Cousin Betty, or why does she look so tired ?” 

She took alarm at once, as I knew she would, dis- 
covered the pallor I had invented, and insisted on 
Nell’s retirement. Miles now came in from the 
stable, where he and Caesar with a lantern had been ex- 
amining a dog’s wounded foot. 

“The gentlemen will be glad to have a little talk 
and smoke now without us,” quoth Cousin Betty, and 
disregarding Eleanor’s protests and with more fare- 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


I 9 I 

well prediction of success for Northcote, she went 
away, sweeping Nell, slender and straitly-gowned, in 
the wake of her ample draperies. We now went into 
the dining-room and around the fire-place lit cigars. 

Watching Northcote stretched comfortably in my 
father’s chair, eyes fixed on the curling smoke of his 
cigar, I could not resist the temptation of breaking in 
abruptly on some unprofitable chat between him and 
Miles with a sudden: “I suppose you have both heard 
the painful news that has come to us?” 

They looked inquiringly at me. 

“ The ladies of our family know nothing of it yet. 
But we have information from Doubleday himself that 
his wife is dead — drowned in Mingo Creek.” 

“Good God!” cried Miles, honestly shocked, “what 
a distressing thing! Poor young woman. How did 
it happen? What made her go off ?” 

“Distressing indeed,” repeated Northcote seriously. 
But I divined from his manner that he knew of it be- 
fore, doubtless through some of his negroes. And that 
he knew it with sufficient calmness, if not actual re- 
lief, to be able to pay brilliant and effective farewell 
calls. 

“Poor Doubleday!” Miles went on, “a worthy good 
fellow, if ever there was one. And she seemed a civil, 
obliging sort of girl. Nice-looking, too, wasn’t she?” 

“I hardly noticed,” said Northcote; “she was about 
my mother a good deal at the last. Rather showy in 
dress for her station, perhaps, but quite useful.” He 
returned my steady look with one of cool impassive- 
ness. 

“ Her husband thinks,” said I, answering Miles, “ that 
she may have wandered from her home while she was 


192 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


light-headed with fever. She was out in all that 
storm, and finally, the stream being much swollen, 
either fell in or threw herself from a broken bridge.” 

“She would hardly do that,” said Northcote tran- 
quilly, taking up the tongs to get a fresh light, “being 
so comfortable here; she was no doubt delirious.” 

“ She was entirely rational when she spoke to me the 
day she went away.” 

“Poor thing! poor thing!” said Miles. In his dis- 
turbance he found fault with his cigar and threw it 
behind the logs, then rose to seek a favorite pipe. 
This filled and lighted he remained standing, leaning 
his elbow on the mantel under the Landgrave’s picture, 
in much the same attitude in which I had confronted 
Dorothy the first night she came to Woodhurst after 
my return. And by a coincidence his hand too, falling 
idly behind the frame of the portrait, struck a pack- 
age of rustling paper. 

“Why, what is this?” he cried, drawing it forth 
from the stout bands which crossed each other behind 
the picture. 

I think Northcote and I leaped to the same conclu- 
sion — O Dorothy, Dorothy, that such was possible! 
He leaned forward, his eyes glowing, the cigar held 
in his fingers, while my brother opened the paper, then 
sank back into his chair in mocking triumph, with an 
open, insolent smile and words which came to me from 
between his teeth, as “ Tu I'as voulu , Geo?'ges Dandin . ” 
I could not be sure but the mere suspicion made me 
for the moment more of a tiger than a man, and as 
though I must strike him, even on our hearth. With 
hand clinched I had made an involuntary step forward, 
when Miles’ words arrested me: 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


193 


‘‘What is this?” he said in great surprise. “’Tis 
signed ‘Letitia Doubleday. ’ But how came it here 
and what is it all about!” 

“Read it,” said I, noting Northcote’s smile change 
to an instant gravity, touched in spite of him with 
painful suspense. Dolly’s foolish coquetry in the 
past was not then to be dragged to light at this inop- 
portune moment, and my heart was easier. 

“It begins,” said Miles: 

“‘To any one who may find this. ’Tis to be read 
and published for justice’s sake. I reckon I’ll then 
be out o’ the way of its harmin’ me, but it doesn’t 

0 matter, for nothin’ could be worse than my life is to 
me now. I solemnly declare that the stuff as maid 
Mr. Richard Northcot sick, an’ the doctor said was pi- 
son, came from old Juba. He sole it to me fer a love 
charm, an’ said it wud bring back any one’s fancy if 
it had left you, an’ maik them love you all their lives, 
which he promised an’ then despised an’ laffed at me. 
An’ maybe he’ll understan’ why I chuse to hide this 
in the place where it’ll be found — I meane Richard 
Northcot — not the furst intrustin’ note as has come to 
him from there, an’ won’t be the last, praps. 

“ ‘So I gave Polux money to put it in his coffy an’ it 

1 didn’t do no good. But Polux was shot, an’ Juba is 
crazy, an’ I may as well tell the truth now. 

“‘One thing I want Mr. Northcot to know very par- 
tickler is, if his mother did make a will — an’ there’s 
menny has seen it, he’ll not find it, never. This is 
every word true. Letitia Doubleday. ’ ” 

In my hurrying thoughts I settled it that she proba- 


i 9 4 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


bly put the package behind the picture the little while 
I was out of the room seeking the sideboard key. 
She must then have come prepared with this written 
confession, and ’twas with some revengeful idea of a 
fitting retribution that she had secreted it where she 
did, with a premonition, or intention rather, that it 
should not be found until after her death. Was there 
more to read? for it seemed as though Miles still 
held some sheets of paper. Perhaps not, for he only 
said very gravely, tendering the blotted note to North- 
cote : 

“ This, at least, clears my poor boy who was so care- 
lessly shot.” 

“You forget that I was also something of a sufferer 
in the matter,” cried Northcote, “though I presume, 
Mr. Ashley, that I could hardly expect that a friend’s 
life would have the same value in your eyes as that of 
your negro.” 

The hand with which he took the paper was quite 
firm, but his color changed as he looked over it to 
crimson, then back again to white. He read the 
words about his mother’s will once again aloud, and 
exclaimed violently, “ What does that mean ?” Then 
looking from one to the other of us, his whole face 
lost in one black frown, said: “ How am I to know that 
this — if not a forgery, ’twas a singular place for it to 
be, and one who hides can find — is not a conspiracy ? 
I am quite aware of the friendly feeling entertained 
for me by one of the gentlemen present, and have 
heard somewhat of secret interviews on stormy nights. 
I shall scarcely have time to sift this business, as I 
leave to-morrow, so may as well concede that this 
spelling seems familiar,” with a sneer, “and is possi- 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


195 


bly the raving of a delirious woman. My lawyer will 
try and discover if there is any connection between the 
allusion to the loss of a will and the place this was 
concealed. And as it is late, I will now bid you good- 
night. ” 

“ No, by God!” said I, with my back against the door. 
I spoke almost in a whisper, but it must have sounded 
queer, for he looked at me strangely. “You will not 
leave us, Mr. Northcote, until we clearly understand 
what you mean. I can comprehend your rage that 
your pleasant vices have turned to whips to scourge 
you from your inheritance, but not how it concerns us. 
If your words refer in any way to me, I will only 
say ” 

“One moment, Anthony,” Miles interposed. He 
had turned aside while we were talking for several in- 
stants, and as he now faced me he was curiously pale 
and spoke in a commanding, though quiet tone quite 
new to him. “ I am the elder, my dear brother, which 
you will admit I seldom insist on, and am mostly 
glad and proud to have you take the lead; but this 
once you will allow me. Mr. Northcote is our guest, 
and you will scarcely resent, at this time and under my 
father’s roof, words which are doubtless without mean- 
ing and caused by some natural heat of disappoint- 
ment.” He paused and looked at Northcote, whose 
sneering smile with which he was prepared to answer 
me faded into a certain gravity. 

“Without meaning, certainly,” said he carelessly, 
“but you must allow for the irritability of a penniless, 
landless unfortunate.” 

“That is enough,” said Miles. “Anthony, you will 
please let me show Mr. Northcote out.” 


196 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


Under the dominion of this novel air of authority he 
wore I mechanically moved aside for them to pass out, 
receiving an ironical bow from Northcote which set 
my blood once more aflame. They stood on the pi- 
azza steps while horses were brought round; then Miles 
came back to say : 

“ Anthony, as ’tis Northcote’s last night here, I will 
ride as far as The George with hrm.” He laid an 
affectionate hand on my shoulder — I can see him now, 
my Miles, standing in his grand height, so handsome 
and kind. “ Do not sit up for me, my dear fellow, I 
may be late.” 

I went to bed, vexed that he should, after this dis- 
closure, continue on friendly terms with Northcote. 
The latter’s change of tone was comprehensible enough, 
I thought scornfully, if a farewell game of ecarte 
would furnish a handsome sum to begin anew with. 

’Twas early night yet when they started, and just 
outside the gate they chanced to meet Henry Over- 
street, riding past on his way to The George too. 
So the talk was general on the road, and they entered 
the tavern laughing together. After a while Miles 
challenged Northcote to a game of ecarte, and as they 
had often done before, asked the landlord for a room, 
who sent the waiter to light it for them. Cards were 
placed on a table and a bottle of wine, and they sat 
down to their game. Something was wrong with the 
candles, or the fire did not burn well, for the waiter 
was obliged to return several times, and said after- 
ward the players seemed absorbed in their game. 
But after a while Miles, speaking more sharply than 
was his wont to inferiors, who always adored him, told 
him not to come back, that he disturbed them. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


197 


Shortly after the colonel, finishing his dominoes and 
preparing for home, remembered some message for my 
father which Miles might carry, and went along the 
passage to knock on the closed door of the small card- 
room. Though the voices within were not raised high, 
his knock, repeated once or twice, was unheard and he 
opened the door. 

Candles were burning on the table and the cards 
lay there scattered, but the two men stood facing each 
other with angry brows, and Miles held some open 
papers in his hand. 

“You will not deny your own handwriting, I pre- 
sume, sir, ” the colonel heard my brother say, and 
Northcote answered coolly with a shrug: 

“lam proud to acknowledge both my own letters 
and the dainty replies with which I was favored.” 

The old man would have retreated, seeing this was 
a personal difficulty, but Miles perceiving him called: 
“Come in, Colonel Milton, if you please, and close 
the door. I am glad, sir, to have you as a witness 
that I consider Mr. Northcote to have been guilty of 
conduct basely dishonorable and unfit for a gentleman. ” 

“You understand, sir, that there can be but one an- 
swer to that,” said Northcote, his face livid, “and as 
my time is limited, the quicker the better.” 

“At your service, sir,” said Miles calmly. The 
waiter was rung for and sent to request the presence 
of two friends from the Long Room. And as any rec- 
onciliation of the dispute was declared by both prin- 
cipals impossible, ’twas supposed to be a quarrel over 
the cards. All arrangements were made at once. 
Nothing could have been suspected in the Long Room, 
as Miles and the others, too, lingered on their way 


198 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


through the group for a joke or a laugh or a bit of 
jesting advice to this or that player. 

“ My heart was heavy,” said the colonel to me after- 
ward, his long hands trembling on his stick, and the 
rare tear of old age on his withered cheek, “but what 
could I do, what could I do, Anthony? I had been in 
a thousand quarrels myself, and acted, I hope, like a 
man. But Miles moved and spoke as I had never seen 
him, and there was the hate of a devil in that cursed 
Northcote’s face.” 

I seemed to myself to have just fallen asleep that 
night when I was awakened by a clatter of andirons, 
and opened my eyes to see Castor making up my fire 
with much unusual noise. 

“What in thunder do you mean by coming in at this 
hour?” said I irritated, for the dawn had scarcely yet 
brightened the far east. He dropped the tongs and 
came up to the bedside with a package. 

“I tink you like fer see dis bundle wha’ jes done 
come.” I opened the paste-board box, and ’twas a 
white satin waist-coat and high stock for Miles, made 
from a piece of the bride-elect’s dress, sent for that 
purpose to Jehu Jones, London tailor on Longitude 
Lane. I was surprised, against all resolve, into swift 
displeasure at the sight. 

“Take it into Mr. Miles’ room, you rascal. What 
have I to do with his things?” I cried. 

“Mas’ Miles done gone out,” said Castor. 

“At this hour!” I exclaimed, for he was a notori- 
ously late riser. And only then perceived the half- 
fearful, half-pleased excitement on Castor’s dusky 
face. 

“He done been gone long time,” said he. “Mas’ 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


I 99 

Henry Overstreet came fer him, an’ dey carry off de 
box wid de jew’lin pistols.” 

With a hasty word for his tardiness in telling me, I 
sprang out of bed and into my clothes. I would not 
wait for a horse to be saddled, but mounted and rode 
him bareback, as my brother and I had so often done in 
childhood. I knew well the clearing among the pines 
across the river where hostile encounters in our 
neighborhood mostly took place, and over which the 
sun was now rising and gilding the tree-tops, and I 
urged my horse along the road in that direction. But 
I was not more than half-way when from out the shade 
of the trees I met a group moving slowly toward me. 

Negroes carried a sort of litter, others led horses, 
and at one side walked Henry Overstreet and Dr. Hous- 
ton. The former gave a violent start on seeing me 
and stepped forward to check me. But I had perceived 
that the motionless figure extended on the litter was 
of unusual length, and a wave of curling blond hair, 
blown by the morning breeze, showed outside the cov- 
ering cloak. A horrible pang of apprehension went 
through me. I fell from my horse and ran toward it. 
And ’twas my dear Miles lying cold and dead. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


That so, in one instant, the stalwart frame, the 
handsome kind presence, all that he was, were shut 
away from us forever, seemed so monstrously impossi- 
ble that I went now silently moving through the scenes 
of the next few days as in some hideous phantasma- 
goria. My father’s pale set face, the women’s sobs, 
our friends’ shocked sympathy, the negroes’ loud 
groans and lamentations, come to me now as if ’twere 
yesterday that we had laid him in the family burying- 
ground on our own place. ’Twas then but a small 
part of the torture humanity must undergo at such 
times of bitterness. 

The women took sad comfort after awhile in dwell- 
ing fondly on the words, tones, looks, all of which 
their tenderness connected with him whom they would 
no more see, he being done to death. But for me and 
for my father too, I know such recalling of the lost 
was being stretched upon the rack. As time goes on 
and we approach the farther confines of this world, 
awaiting instantly our summons hence, we seem so 
near to joining our beloved dead that we can speak 
calmly of them, as I do now. But there were years 
and years when my Miles’ name uttered in my hearing 
was like the turning of steel in some open wound. 

I went through my part, however, receiving and an- 
swering innumerable notes and letters of condolence, 

200 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


201 


and seeing visitors from all parts of the country-side 
who came to express their sympathy. Among these 
came the poor old colonel, all bowed and trembling 
from the shock. He sat in the darkened parlor lean- 
ing on his stick, and after trying vainly once or twice 
to speak, said at last: 

“ He came in to me a moment on the way, Anthony. 
I was in bed. I asked if nothing could be done to rec- 
oncile matters, but he said no, and I knew from his 
face that ’twas final. What could I say? I am a sol- 
dier, and when I was younger would have been with 
him. ,, And then, “I’m told that when the word was 
given the villain’s pistol caught in the lapel of his 
coat, and Miles, foregoing his advantage, lowered his 
own and waited his readiness. And after that — after 
that, by God! Northcote smiled, took deliberate aim, 
and — and — curse him!” 

But the old man’s spirit was weakened by this blow. 
He loved us both as his own children, and during his 
few remaining years was never himself again. He had 
forgotten one of the principal objects of his coming, 
and ’twas only after I had helped him on his mule 
that he remembered it. Then he drew out a package 
from his pocket. 

“Oh, I was to give you this, Anthony, in case he 
fell. ’Twas for that he came to me so early. He 
would not leave it in his bedchamber or the servants 
might have found it before he wished.” 

I thanked him mechanically. I wanted to be alone 
with my message from the dead. It ran so: 

“My Dear Anthony: — If you ever read this ’twill 
be because I can never speak to you again. And the 


202 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


pain that leaving you, my dear brother, would be to 
me is what I dare not dwell on, for I must act now as 
becomes an Ashley and a gentleman. 

“When you would have quarrelled with Northcote 
’twas in our father’s house, and I used that obstacle to 
check you. But ’twas not all my reason, and you must 
forgive me for insisting on my place as elder, which 
you know I had never cared about, but was glad to 
have you settle other matters, who are so clever. 

“When I found by accident that writing of Mrs. 
Doubleday’s behind the picture, there was some more 
wrapped in a sheet of blank paper and addressed tome. 
I glanced over it while you two were speaking, and 
there were notes in a hand I knew, but not to me — 
more than one, and some from Richard Northcote in 
reply. So I had cause of quarrel — with so close and 
confidential a friend — which you could not have, but 
not there and then, and I rode out with him. 

“The people at the tavern, even the colonel, think 
the dispute was over cards. But I would not have you 
or my father believe me so weak, having given up play 
since poor Pollux’ death, as you both know. Tell 
him only that ’twas another matter; and you will burn 
the papers after reading them yourself. I have written 
Dorothy — understand that she is in no wise to blame — • 
but the underhand dealing of a trusted friend I cannot 
forgive. Nor his words about it. 

“If I fall, you will, make a better master of Wood- 
hurst than I ever could. Tell my father I said so, 
with my love. And to all my dear people, and you 
above all, my beloved Anthony. 

“Your loving brother, 

“Miles Ashley.’' 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


203 


The notes within on their sheets of foreign paper 
were letters of Northcote, written while Dorothy was 
in Charleston, and the answers were probably those 
whose loss he raged about at the tavern, and which 
Mrs. Doubleday must have secured when an inmate of 
Oaklands. She, no doubt, had found means to bribe 
the messenger who went to meet the mail-coach, and 
inclosing them with her own statement, had trusted to 
the precise accident which had discovered them for a 
supplementary posthumous vengeance, after destroying 
the stolen will. A vengeance, alas! whose heaviest 
stroke had turned aside to fall upon a manly heart 
which held no thought of wrong to any one. 

Northcote’s tone, respectful enough at first, grew 
more daring in the two last, and thinly veiled under a 
pretence of gallantry audacious advances but weakly 
discouraged by a spoiled beauty. The fanciful ad- 
dress to “ Beauteous Myrtilla ” of the first letter be- 
came “Lovely Dorothy,” and then “adored Dolly,” 
which was indeed rebuked, but in his own proper 
name and not that of “ Lucius” as at first. And in the 
last one he had ventured plainly to tell her that she 
was throwing herself away on a man of inferior parts 
and no spirit, when an adorer worthy of her was dying 
to carry her off to realms of enchantment, where a free 
forgiveness would follow them. I had reason to be- 
lieve that what was no worse than foolish coquetry on 
her part had been past for some time, to his bitter 
chagrin. But ’twas easy to imagine the effect of the 
disclosure of these passages on one quite unsuspecting, 
who saw himself described as too supine to be a fit 
mate for so beautiful and spirited a goddess, and too 
much a laggard in love to be even capable of jealousy. 


204 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


For ’twas thus Northcote chose to misrepresent the 
noble simplicity whose high sense of honor forbade 
distrust. 

When all proper requirements were fulfilled, all 
duties paid, and the household had resumed its usual 
mechanical routine, I prepared for a journey and went 
to bid farewell to my father. He placed his hands on 
my shoulders, looked long and earnestly into my eyes, 
then murmured through lips almost closed: “We are 
told — we are told — to forgive.” I shook my head, 
meeting his look with one as steady. 

“Go, then, go,” said he, taking his hands away. 
“ I hang no calf-skin on my own son’s limbs. Only” — 
with a close embrace — “ come back to me, come back 
to me.” 

Before I started I had had a note from Northcote 
in Richmond, in reply to one of mine, which I think 
may have pierced through his shell of studied indiffer- 
ence. He answered: 

“ Sir: — I shall be happy to meet you when and where 
our seconds may appoint. ,r Tis an honor I have long 
desired, having hated you from childhood, which, be- 
ing so very clever, you have known, no doubt, espe- 
cially since I found that notes which used to fly to me, 
almost under your brother’s eyes, ceased to come from 
the very first night of your return to Woodhurst. It 
seems a pity that your brother, having been so long 
blind, should at the last have been so hasty; otherwise 
he might have found cause to direct his suspicions 
against some one else than, sir, 

“Your very obliged, humble servant, 

“Richard Northcote.” 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


205 


*Twas a week after that I saw once more his false, 
detested face at twenty paces from me, in an open field 
close by the James River. It wore its usual smile, but 
looked to me ill at ease, with all its bravado, beneath 
my gaze. ’Twas my first and only duel, but standing 
there facing my enemy, I seemed to be doing nothing 
unusual. ’Twas as though all my life had been lead- 
ing up to this point, and I were merely acting in a scene 
prefigured in frequent dream. Beyond this I was chiefly 
conscious of the delicious freshness of the morning, 
of the beauty of the woods sloping down to the water- 
side, and mechanically of the awkwardness in handling 
the pistols of one of the seconds. Northcote fired first 
on the word, but with something of hurry, perhaps, for 
the ball only grazed my coat-sleeve ; then, taking aim, I 
fired, and he staggered backward a pace or two and fell. 
The others ran up and surrounded him, and I waited. 

“The surgeon says ’tis most likely a fatal wound,” 
said Broadacre, coming back. “But there is still a 
breath of life in him. We must be going, Anthony.” 

We left for home immediately, and there I learned 
from time to time of the raging fever and after-pros- 
tration from his wound which kept my enemy in bed 
for three months, of the certainty of permanent lame- 
ness if his life was saved, of his narrow escape and 
final recovery, for which I was at that time sorry, for 
I had meant to kill him. 

In these calmer, cooler years, it may seem to me 
better that his death, though deserved, should not lie 
at my door; but for a great part of my life the only 
argument of practical force with me against a custom 
to which I was born and bred was that the lightning 
of this ordeal was as likely to strike the avenger as 
14 


206 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


the offender. A survival of the old “judgment of 
God,” it might too often be known, as a modern writer 
says all judgments are, by their falling on the wrong 
person. However, I need not here obtrude an in- 
dividual opinion on a generation which has attained a 
point of view clearer, juster, more dispassionate, no 
doubt. 

Even then I could not be insensible to the suspense 
my father must have undergone when I saw the deep 
passion of relief with which he welcomed me to him 
still in life. I am always glad to remember that, con- 
trolling a feeling which, since Miles left me, made me 
loath to look upon the familiar scenes of childhood, 
and long to fly where the sudden sight or touch of his 
belongings could not torment me. I was my father’s 
constant and devoted companion for some months 
now. And even Nell’s ministrations, exquisitely 
sympathetic and tactful as they were, seemed not so 
restful to him, strangely, as my mere presence. There 
would be long spaces with hardly a word exchanged 
as we rode side by side through the plantation or sat 
in the library. ’Twas enough if there passed between 
us an occasional glance of agreement on subjects dis- 
cussed by others, an appreciative acquaintance with 
favorite authors, a hand-clasp now and then. Yet of a 
sudden, one day, he said abruptly: 

“ This will not do — no, not at all. ’Tis mere selfish- 
ness on my part. Go, my son, for a while to Europe, 
or where you will. Only return to me your old self, 
mind and body, as far as may be. ’Twill give me 
peace, perhaps, to find that you have gained it. For 
our loss, ‘Durum; sed fit , levius patientia quic quid est 
nefas corrigere ; and knowing that ‘ una nox manet o nines > 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


207 


ct via lethi semel calc am da, * we may await with tran- 
quillity our own time for sleep, when we too shall say 
good-night to earth.” And he so over-ruled and bore 
down all my objections to leaving him that I presently 
made my arrangements for a foreign tour. 

’Twas the afternoon before my setting out that I had 
my first sight of Dorothy Winter since the tragedy 
which had so changed our lives. The shock had con- 
fined her to her chamber with an illness at the time of 
Miles’ interment, nor had she been to Woodhurst 
since, though Nell had driven over many times to see 
her. She came this day, and I heard the sound of 
women’s sobs in the upper rooms which drove me 
downstairs. And there I presently saw her through 
the open door, her slight form draped in mourning, 
pass swiftly through the hall, looking neither to right 
nor left, and enter her coach, which drove away, stop- 
ping, perhaps, at our burial ground, but this I do not 
know, for I did not look. 

I was abroad now for three or four years, wandering 
hither and thither, only to discover that black care had 
followed me, and with him two ghosts. One gone 
forever from earth, the other still in the flesh, both 
equally disquieting in their constant presence. Until 
I decided at last that they might best be laid at home, 
or, if not, there was work there to be done at least. 
My passage was engaged, when a note informed me 
that some of the Sherwood family from Kent, relatives 
of Cousin Betty, of whom I have spoken before, were 
in Liverpool and desired to see me. It appeared that 
the ladies, an aunt and niece, the pretty child I had 
known grown to womanhood, intended making a long- 
promised visit to their kinsfolk in Carolina. 


208 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“And we should be glad to have Mr. Anthony 
Ashley’s company and protection on our voyage,” said 
Miss Sherwood, “if it is no inconvenience to him.” 

“ Madam, it will be both an honor and a pleasure,” I 
assured her; but in the ungraciousness of my secret 
depression, felt that I would rather have had no lady of 
my acquaintance on board whom it was my duty to serve 
and attend. Their timidity about the dangerous new 
steam-boats, and the fact that the latter went first to 
New York, caused me to prefer a schooner for Charles- 
ton direct; and we were quite thirty days on the way. 
I have often felt ashamed since then when I remember 
the feminine perception which, in a very short space 
of that time, divined my morbid despondency, and 
with gentle tact and girlish delicacy almost soothed it 
into peace. In the blindness of my selfish depression 
I was insensible to the sympathy accorded me by sweet 
Alice Sherwood during long hours together on the 
deck, and ’twas not until we were riding off Charleston 
bar, the tide not serving us to cross it yet, that I 
chanced to notice her bright complexion a little 
dimmed by the fatigue of the voyage. 

“We must hope that your niece will not lose her 
pretty English color in our climate, Miss Sherwood,” 
said I to this lady, reclining on a low chair, still weak 
from recent sea-sickness. 

“ ’Tis but the monotony of the voyage, I fancy,” she 
replied, smiling fondly at her niece. “We need only 
to feel the solid ground under foot once more to recover 
vigor.” 

And just then the captain came up with a grave face. 
“This is ill news from town, Mr. Ashley and ladies,” 
said he, “ which I am bound to tell you at once. 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


209 


There has some fever broken out there, brought from 
the Indies in a fruit bark three weeks ago; and many 
have died. I will not leave the ship at all ; freight can 
be unloaded from a distance, and of course, after unload- 
ing, my passengers can be taken to some other port.” 

The ladies looked at me, but quietly, and nothing 
startled. 

“ I should recommend, nay, strongly urge, your 
following the captain’s advice,” said I, “ you being 
strangers and unacclimated. For myself, I must land, 
as I find by this note that my father has driven down 
from the country to meet me, has been in town since 
last night, and though a little exhausted from the heat 
to-day, will have the coach in readiness to set off for 
Woodhurst at once, so as to avoid my spending the 
night in town, which, for one who has been away, is 
thought not well.” 

“ ’Tis a foolish seeming thing,” said Miss Sherwood, 
“ to wait all these years to visit my relatives, and then 
cross the ocean and back again without a sight of their 
faces. If ’twas myself alone — I have been in India, 
and when there was cholera there too — but Alice ” 

“Do not be afraid for me,” she cried. “I would 
much, much rather stay.” 

“No, do not,” the captain advised. And I once 
more urged their return to England, or better, a visit 
to New York until frost. I repeated what I had said 
in Liverpool, that ’twas not wise to choose the sum- 
mer-time for visiting warm latitudes. 

“ I have been in much warmer without inconven- 
ience,” declared Miss Sherwood. In fine, the more I 
opposed their landing, the more their minds were fixed 
upon it. 


210 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“ I think he wants to be rid of us, Alice,” said Miss 
Sherwood at length. 

“It looks like it, aunt,” said Alice, smiling. 

“ Then,” said I, “ since you will run the risk, let it be 
as slight as possible. You need not sleep in the city, 
but go right on with us to Woodhurst, where Cousin 
Betty will be too glad to hold you until frost allows 
you to visit town.” 

Thus opportunity of repaying a little of their kind 
hospitality of former days in England was promised 
me. And as soon as possible we and our luggage 
were carried to town and taken to the Planters'. And 
there I found my father in bed with some indisposition, 
slight, he said, but sufficient to detain us in the city 
over night. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Of the Sherwood family these ladies were to visit, 
but one representative had remained in town after 
sickness had broken out, and he was there expressly to 
meet and conduct them to his country-house. He pro- 
tested against their change of plan, but after a little 
talk with Miss Sherwood yielded courteously to her 
intention of first visiting our Cousin Betty at Wood- 
hurst, which he conceded to be a cooler place at this 
season. When he took his leave of us to set off at 
once, I still thought we too should certainly start for 
Woodhurst that day. 

But about noon my father seemed worse, and Miss 
Sherwood merely echoed my own fears when she said: 
“ As he has some fever, Anthony, ’twould be well to 
have the doctor look at him. ” The force at the hotel 
was so small, guests being few at this time and many 
of the waiters dismissed or withdrawn by their owners 
from the city, I went out myself to seek a physician, 
leaving her in charge. 

The streets, so gay and animated on the cool winter 
day I had last walked them, with handsome equipages, 
brisk pedestrians, and numerous lusty-lunged hucksters, 
were now, under the brilliant July sun, as a city of the 
dead. The dust lay thick everywhere, for ’twas a long 
drouth and the watering-carts had ceased going out; 
vines and window-plants looked dry and dead; grass 

21 1 


212 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


was growing neglected about the thoroughfares; only 
the drug and necessary provision shops were open for 
business; the licensed stands for drays were deserted; 
the buzzards seemed to flap their wings ominously 
about the silent market-place ; foot-passengers were few, 
most of them wearing the same dreary or anxious look, 
except, indeed, the unreflecting negroes, who were, be- 
sides, comparatively exempt from danger, the disease 
appearing to pass them. Of vehicles there were few 
but the doctors* gigs, driven swiftly by their black 
boys here and there, and an occasional hearse with a 
gloomy little procession wending its way to some city 
church-yard. Our family physician was not in his 
office, but, by good fortune, I met him turning out of 
Lightwood Alley. He bade me get in with him, tell- 
ing his driver to mount behind. After an examina- 
tion, careful but rapid, he being much pressed for 
time, he said to me in the hall-way outside my father’s 
door: 

“ ’Tis the fever, certainly, though not a bad case. 
Careful nursing is what is needed above all. Is this 
lady ” glancing at Miss Sherwood, who stood be- 

side me. 

“ A connection,** she replied, “ and most anxious to 
assist. I have had much experience in sick-nursing. ” 

I opened my lips to protest, but the doctor was al- 
ready giving his orders, and quickly drove away. 
Then I said, “ I have sent to our coachman at the 
Rising Sun to harness up at once. He is a careful 
old fellow, Miss Sherwood, and * tis an easy day’s 
journey to Woodhurst. As you are strangers, the 
sooner you are there the better.’* 

“ My dear Anthony,” she said, turning a pleasant, 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


213 


motherly face, very like Cousin Betty’s, to me, and 
putting a kind hand on mine, “do you think I have 
known you so long and like you so much to desert you 
here, with your father sick and no woman on hand? 
No, please God, I will stay and help nurse him. And 
Alice ” 

“Will stay too,” declared the girl, who had come 
up, putting her hand in her aunt’s. 

“You see,” said the latter, smiling, “since Alice’s 
parents were taken away our fortunes are the same, 
and we stand or fall together.” 

And the good little woman went presently to work, 
and was a tower of strength to me, all inexperienced 
as I was in illness, for the next five or six weary days 
and nights. The fever left my father about the third 
day, and though terribly weak, the doctor found his 
condition favorable. ’Twas at the end of the week that 
my kind fellow-nurse sickened, was forced to keep her 
bed, and notwithstanding all skill and care and her 
niece’s devotion, yielded in a fearfully short time to 
the destroyer, and was laid to rest, almost within sight 
of my father’s window, in the Huguenot church-yard, 
just across the street, where, years afterward, my 
children were taught to read reverently on her simple 
headstone how “ Elizabeth Sherwood had died of 
Stranger’s Fever,” and how 

“ Praises on tombs are titles vainly spent; 

A man’s good name is his best monument.’* 

My father asked several times for his good nurse, 
when I judged it best to say she was tired out; and 
when she left us, I told him as calmly as might be that 
she was better, but could not come to him. 

“No. no. certainly not,” said he; “she has done her 


214 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


part and should have rest and cheerfulness now. But 
I may sometimes see Alice, perhaps; her sweet face is 
a tonic in itself. ” 

I would have evaded complying with this request, 
but a maid who was in the room at the time took it 
upon herself to repeat his desire to Alice Sherwood; 
and that afternoon, when I was out, she rose up from 
under the burden of her great grief for the aunt who 
was more than a mother, and, laying aside her black 
robes for a white gown, went to him and gave him 
the comfort of her soothing ministrations and gentle 
voice and manner, practising, as she must, a marvellous 
self-control for one so young. At this very time the 
doctor, who was driving me to a friend’s house, was 
sounding her praises. 

“Did one ever see,” he cried, “such courage and 
devotion and self-forgetfulness, with such a deep sense 
of loss? A brave girl. But she maybe sick. She 
should be sent off as soon as possible. Your father, 
too, as soon as he is able to travel.” 

“ The coach,” said I, “ was sent home some days ago 
to bring back my cousin Betty Sherwood, who will 
take the young lady at once to Woodhurst. ” 

“You may take your father too,” said the doctor, 
alighting, “ if he is careful now — very careful, but you 
understand the necessity, of course.” 

I found my patient better and brighter for his 
visitant, but how hard for her that he should send his 
grateful respects to her aunt! I touched her fair hand 
in a broken attempt to express my pity, and sympathy, 
and gratitude; but she turned away hastily with a pain- 
ful sob. 

I had a note now from Cousin Betty by the hand of 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


215 


an acquaintance, saying that she had been prevented 
starting immediately by a rheumatic attack which had 
confined her to bed. 

“It came, I think, my dear, from going down to the 
quarters in the rain to make Daddy Jake take his dose 
of Flugger’s Pills. He is an obstinate old fellow, and 
will only swallow them when I stand over him. He 
fed the pigeons with the last and killed five. I will 
be well enough to reach you in a day or two, I hope, 
and in the mean time am glad to hear your father is on 
the road to health. My love to him and respects to 
Elizabeth Sherwood and Alice, and I am most anxious 
to meet them. Be sure and keep your rooms well 
sprinkled with Aromatick Vinegar, and a peace of 
camphire worn about the neck is a good preventative.” 

’Twas nearly a week before she could come to us, 
and in this while my dear father, who had been well 
enough to sit up, had from some trifling imprudence 
a relapse and was very ill. As I watched him my 
heart grew leaden, the more so when a heavy shower of 
rain fell one afternoon and sensibly cooled the sultry 
air, and I saw the doctor’s look of gravity, for well we 
both knew that any sudden change of temperature was 
fatal in this sickness. When the case became so seri- 
ous, one of the good Sisters of Mercy replaced Alice 
Sherwood in his room, but the girl had still come to his 
bedside now and then with a bright word or smile. 

“A sweet girl,” he said faintly, following her out 
on the last of these occasions with his gaze, so keen, 
alas! until dimmed by weakness. “Such a woman 
would have great power to heal a wound, Anthony.” 


2l6 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“Unless ’twere still open and bleeding,” said I, as 
to my own soul. 

“’Twill close, my dear, twill close,” very softly, 
“though I may not deny, for well I know there is pain- 
ful throbbing under the scar long after. But,” look- 
ing earnestly at me, “there is abundant future strength 
in those eyes which they tell me are like my own.” 
He fell asleep shortly after, and when he waked his 
mind was not clear, for he thought himself back in 
old student days, and spoke to his class-mates and re- 
peated Latin college songs. Then it changed, and he 
called in tones of moving tenderness, “Amaryllis, 
love,” and passionately: “My soul, the very eyes of 
me, Amaryllis, dearest.” I knew that was not my 
mother’s name. Toward morning, when the air felt 
damp and chilly, he smiled at me, faintly conscious once 
more, and whispered : “ Kiss me, Anthony, my dear son, 
my very self.” And presently, while I still held my 
dear father in my arms, he had gone away from me. 

’Twas needful to forget myself that I might support 
our poor Cousin Betty under the shock of so violent 
and unexpected a blow which awaited her on her 
coming. 

“O Anthony! Anthony!” she cried, her head on 
my shoulder, “how kind he was always, how good and 
kind! Was ever any one like him? But for him I 
would have died in my young days, when I lost my 

Arthur ” and her own pitiful little romance of 

long ago came out — when her lover was drowned in 
a storm at sea and my father was the kindest of 
brothers to her. 

Alice Sherwood was a great comfort here with little 
affectionate attentions to our cousin and weeping with 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


2 17 


her over their common griefs. I sent them both to the 
country at once, in charge of Jupiter, and followed 
myself later to Woodhurst, where we laid my father 
under the live-oaks beside our Miles. 

For this winter we kept Alice Sherwood, her married 
brothers in England not insisting on her speedy return.* 
And if she went off at intervals to visit other kinsfolk, 
’twas understood that she always come back to Wood- 
hurst, where Cousin Betty and Nell seemed to fill the 
vacant place in her heart left by her aunt. But for 
this loss, which made quiet congenial to her, our 
plantation would have been at this time but a dull 
place for a young girl. When I had time to notice, 
for I kept myself always busy, I was glad to see that 
the fresh English roses in her cheeks had not faded 
in our climate, but after their temporary drooping 
bloomed again brightly. 

Clergymen of the family religion, as I have men- 
tioned once before, officiated but seldom in St. Stephen’s 
at that period. And for weeks, and even months, we 
scarcely saw one. It chanced, therefore, that during 
this time of mourning we actually had more of the 
friendly society of the learned Bishop England, of the 
Catholic Church, who, travelling in the country, 
stopped at Woodhurst as formerly, where he was a 
valued intimate of my father’s. It hardly surprised 
me, then, when our Eleanor, who had derived much 
comfort from his kindly talk, said to me one day: 

“ Anthony, if there were anything you thought it 
right to do, no disapproval or opposition would pre- 
vent you, would it, brother?” I apprehended her 
meaning, from previous indications I had noted, and 
answered with my arm around her: 


2l8 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


“ My dearest Nell, I am as liberal as our father was, 
I hope, and in whatever you may earnestly think it 
right to do, you shall have your brother’s support.” 

At the same time, I well knew the trial it would be 
to so sensitive a spirit to bear the indignant protests 
and coldness at her defection from their ranks of 
every other relative and friend, even of Cousin Betty, 
after her pleadings and tears had proved useless. 

Alice Sherwood was filled with wonder at her course, 
confiding to me her surprise that any one belonging to 
a body springing from that fortunate enough to name 
the King of England Head of the Church and Defender 
of the Faith could relinquish that privilege. My de- 
scendants will remember that I speak of days when 
Ritualism was not, and the astonishing changes of the 
last fifty years in her own church had not yet caused 
Cousin Betty to lift hands of horrified protest on being 
taken in later times to one of that communion in a 
Northern city. 

Her own people in their quiet, conservative life in 
plantation or city had innocently and comfortably gone 
on practising ways established and brought over under 
Charles the Second, and cultivated in their children a 
great horror of what they considered the ceremonial 
entirely forbidden to them. 

One good effect this ordeal of Nell’s had in bring- 
ing into bright relief the loyalty and honest devotion 
of Tom Broadacre. 

“ ’Tis a shame,” he cried, “ the way they all trouble 
her. She’s an angel, whatever she chooses to call 
herself on earth, and if she’ll let me, I’ll be glad to go 
with her to any part of heaven she prefers.” 

He was, on one excuse or other, continually in our 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


219 


neighborhood now, and so stanch was his support and 
so unobtrusive and patient his homage that, Richard 
Northcote being removed and his name only remem- 
bered for evil, Nell came to depend upon this trusty 
adherent more and more. Perhaps, too, his demeanor 
was now adjusted, with more tact than we had given 
him credit for, to what he knew to be her feelings. 
So when he offered her once more a life-long devotion, 
’twas not refused. And our Eleanor’s change of faith 
was followed by a move to Edisto with him, there to 
found a home which it lightened my heavy heart then 
and thereafter to know was a very happy one. 


CHAPTER XX 


After my father’s death a letter of earnest sym- 
pathy had come to Eleanor from Switzerland, where 
Dorothy Winter was travelling that season with her 
parents. They were abroad until late, and the next 
year came a magnificent wedding-gift for Nell from 
New York, where Dorothy was with relatives. The 
following summer she was at the White Sulphur, and 
’twas not until that winter was half-spent that I heard 
of her return to Fairview. I knew we must meet 
sooner or later, with full consciousness on both sides 
of what was past and gone, yet I was cowardly enough 
to shrink from it. For which reason I devised all 
possible excuses for sending Doubleday, permanently 
with me now, in my stead to Buzzard’s Roost, the 
road to which crossed the bridle-path from Fairview. 
Also I deferred making the ceremonious call which 
appearances exacted of me. 

’Twas one afternoon when the house was very quiet, 
the dinner-hour long past, the servants in kitchen or 
quarters, Cousin Betty with Alice gone on a few days’ 
visit to Nell’s, and I, reluctant to go out again after 
a busy morning’s riding, had thrown open the door 
between the silent library and dining-room and was 
pacing up and down the length of the two rooms. As 
I turned at the end of the latter, ’twas suddenly to 
face Dorothy Winter in the door-way. 

220 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


221 


“How like your father you seemed then,” she said 
softly, “and now, with those serious eyes, how like 
him” glancing up at the old picture of the Land- 
grave. I was silent at this unfortunate allusion, 
remembering the fatal letters taken from behind that 
portrait — nay, I will speak out bravely. Was it not 
rather the sight of that incomparable face and sound 
of her voice which struck me dumb and almost de- 
prived me, as of old, of all sense and courage? She 
advanced, holding out a slim hand. “Have you no 
welcome for me, Anthony? I startled you, perhaps. 
The hall-door was open, so I came in to look for some 
one. Did you not hear my coach-wheels on the 
avenue ?” 

I took her hand formally, to lead her into the other 
room, for I could not bear to speak to her just there 
with a vision crossing me of how Miles once looked 
and spoke on that spot. In the library I drew an 
arm-chair to the fire for my guest. 

“Cousin Betty is away with Eleanor, ” I said then. 
“ I am sorry to be the only one to receive you. ” 

“And I am not,” she said quite clearly, and still 
standing, her hand on the chair-back. “ For ’tis with 
you, Anthony, I have wanted for, oh, so long to speak.” 

She looked paler than formerly, and taller too, in 
her dark fur-trimmed gown, but her eyes were lustrous 
as of old and her grace and beauty beyond any other 
woman’s. Whether ’twas accidental or not I cannot 
tell, but at her girdle shone the gold and sapphire 
vinaigrette I had once given her. 

“Anthony,” she said, her gaze intent upon my som- 
bre face, “why am I shut out of your sorrow? Was I 
so unworthy to mourn, or were the few lines I sent you 
15 


222 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


long ago unfit to be noticed? Your Cousin Betty and 
Nell, and even your father, in their own grief, could 
spare me a little pity, and why not you? Did you not 
believe I suffered?” 

“ That I cannot tell,” I answered her in a low voice, 
“but there is suffering retributive — deserved.” 

She drew in her breath sharpty; then, “ How do you 
mean ?” she asked slowly. Heaven knows I had not 
intended to reproach her, but this interview was not 
of my seeking, and I was hard-pressed, fighting more 
myself than her. 

“Did you think they quarrelled over cards?” I 
asked. 

“ ’Twas so reported,” she answered steadily, but her 
face turned so white I stepped closer to her, thinking 
she would fall. 

“And you believed it?” 

“If I did not entirely,” she answered, her head 
proudly erect, though her lips were trembling, “ if I was 
tortured with misgivings, ’twas not through him, your 
generous, noble brother. You may see what he last wrote 
me.” She drew a folded billet from her bosom with a 
sort of defiance and held it to me. I took the paper 
and read in my brother’s handwriting: 

“Dear Love; — If this is read by you, I would not 
have you think I risked a life belonging to you in any 
lesser cause than yours. ’Tisno blame to your beauty 
that it should attract admiration; but to resent pre- 
sumption in the matter is my privilege, otherwise I 
were not fit for the happiness of being your protector, 
which I have been hoping for, so soon. 

“If ’tis never to be, why then I beg you to remem- 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


223 


ber there is no slightest cause for self-reproach on your 
part. Only there was nothing else possible but this 
encounter to him who signs himself, in life and death, 
“Your Miles.” 

Her eyes were still on my face as she took the paper 
from me and restored it to its place. “Well?” she 
said, at length breaking the silence. 

“Such generous confidence,” I answered bitterly, 
“might well have won more loyalty.” 

She started, putting her hand to her heart quickly, 
as if I had stabbed her. 

“I have always been spoiled, perhaps,” she said 
hurriedly, “ and he gave me great freedom always 
during our engagement. If he had been more master- 
ful and exacting, like — like some others, it might have 
been better for us both. And,” she cried, answering 
my look, “you think that I abused my freedom. What 
is it that you think, Anthony? Why do you keep me 
so in the dark ?” 

For answer I drew in my turn some papers from an 
inner pocket. ’Twas the package found behind the 
portrait, which I carried with me, possibly as an anti- 
dote to some fierce emotions that seized upon me some- 
times. As I laid them on a table, -she approached and 
lifted first one and then another. The deep flush 
which overspread her face died away, leaving her white 
as before. Then, laying them down, she touched her 
own lightly with a finger while she slowly said: 

“ I see now there is small hope of leniency. But, 
Anthony, if other, kinder eyes than yours, so dark and 
stern, looked into these, they might not find cause so 
great for harshness. What is there deeper here than a 


224 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


foolish girl’s coquetry or worse than a vain love of 
admiration ?” 

“The pretty faults that cost a man his life.” Oh, 
could those beautiful proud eyes look so through great 
tears falling slowly on her cheeks? 

“For God’s sake,” I cried hurriedly, “let us talk 
no more of this. The past is forever past, and we but 
wound each other and ourselves.” 

“ No, we must talk,” she rejoined, after a moment or 
two. “ I will have you hear me, Anthony, for I think 
you are unjust. If ’twere to Miles I spoke I would 
say that a fault is not a crime and that ’ tis heavily 
visited by a tragedy. I might say, too, that Richard 
Northcote’s jealous enmity to both of you could easily 
have found excuse for a feud in any matter. Men 
fight every day, you know, for trifles; a look, a word, a 
bet — anything. He had grown reckless in his loss of 
fortune, and because — because I had long before then 
been obliged to check him. And — and he had even 
told me he meant to quarrel with you for — some 
fancied injury. But in so far as I am responsible, oh, 
believe that my grief has been heavy enough to satisfy 
even you and much more Miles, even — for anything else 
that — that was not my fault. And if he could see me 
now, he would know that I meant to make him a de- 
voted, faithful wife. But he is gone, nor would that 
noble heart will that mine should always suffer. So I 
come to you, Anthony, appealing against your hard 
judgment for forgiveness, and even for the friendship 
that has always been so dear.” 

Were these Dorothy Winter’s little hands laid on 
my arm and her great eyes softened in appeal ? 

“ Anthony,” the girl went on, “can you so easily for- 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


225 


get our childhood days together, and — later times, when 
we have — yes, all of us, and I too, looked for your 
approval in everything?” 

O Dorothy, Dorothy, if my brows were bent ’twas 
in the fierce inward conflict which I had thought over 
long ago, and if I stood unmoved while my every pulse 
thrilled beneath your touch, ’twas that I might not fall 
at your feet. I contrived to say somehow: 

“As far as you may need it, my free forgiveness is 
yours, and we may be friends, I think — but apart. 
For our old close intimacy ’tis impossible. There is 
a shade stands between us.” 

She let her hands fall slowly to her side, but as 
though something in my voice or face startled her, 
looked searchingly at me. Then she spoke: 

“You are very cruel, Anthony. But you have suf- 
fered and, I see, still suffer.” 

She replaced her hat, took her muff from the table, and 
passed slowly into the hall without another word. I 
followed mechanically to the front steps, where her coach 
waited. Our Caesar was passing at the moment, and 
she said some trifling thing to the man, with so much 
of her old playful manner that I might have thought 
our interview a dream if I had not, at the moment, 
caught sight of her face under the shade of her hat. 
She barely touched my fingers as I stood bowing low 
to hand her in, but she turned to me the moment after 
and murmured : 

“ Good-by, then, Anthony, and God bless you al- 
ways.” 

“Madam,” said I hoarsely, “may God bless you and 
grant you happiness, and — and forgive me if I am 
wrong.” 


226 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


Then the coach rolled on, and I would not have 
cared if I had been down among the wheels and the 
horses’ hoofs. When, a while after, I was shut into 
my room, I went up to Miles’ picture, with his own 
frank, honest look, that hung always at the head of 
my bed, over the carved evangelist’s which watched 
— such ages ago — over two curly boyish heads sleeping 
on one pillow beneath ; and I said, with my hand on the 
painted breast: “If you know it all now, Miles, you 
will know that I have atoned.” 

I heard soon that the Winters had left the neighbor- 
hood again on some extended tour, and they were but 
seldom at home now, Fairview being in charge of an 
excellent overseer and their only child and idol pre- 
ferring to travel. Rumors of her brilliant successes 
and praises of her charms floated to us from the distant 
city or watering-place where she chanced to be from 
time to time. 

As for us, our home was very quiet, being still the 
house of mourning, and ’twas very good of a young 
creature like Alice Sherwood to decline invitations 
that she had and cut short occasional visits to town 
that she might cheer Cousin Betty’s loneliness and 
brighten Woodhurst. ’Twas wonderful, too, how much 
interest she, a stranger, took in the multifarious duties 
of a large plantation, and how much she thus lightened 
the burden for the lady of the house. 

“How can I ever do without her?” cried Cousin 
Betty. “ I cannot live without this daughter, now Nell 
has left me. I do not mean to let her go back.” 

Indeed, there was no reason she should, the girl being 
very much her own mistress, independent as to her 
little income, and having a close affection for this, her 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


227 


relative. ’Twas much to know that I did not leave 
Cousin Betty quite alone during my many absences and 
busy occupations. As for the negroes at the house or 
quarters, they adored the girl, calling her “ Miss Rose- 
bud,” in allusion to her pretty red and white color, and 
quitting any occupation gladly to run her errands or 
hold her pony. And her pliant figure on that pony be- 
came a familiar feature in the landscape, riding in a 
way a little stiff, perhaps, or so it seemed to me, ac- 
customed to one sitting her horse in Southern fashion, 
than whom Diana’s self could scarce have been more 
radiant. And her sweet face was an ornament to our 
parlor, evenings, which it seemed absurd to think of 
sparing, and as ’twas not I who instigated an occa- 
sional letter of recall from England, Cousin Betty’s 
look of something like reproach toward me on such 
occasions was surely undeserved. 

She had been with us about two years, when one 
rainy afternoon I met, as I was riding homeward, 
Castor coming with our mail from the coach. He gave 
me mine at the house door, being proud that through 
his skill in writing he could assort the mail. I took 
mine to my room, having many unsocial, churlish 
habits in these days. After various business and other 
epistles were disposed of I took up one, at sight of 
which my heart stood still. Twas on the pale-tinted, 
faintly perfumed paper women used then, and on the 
seal the well-remembered arrow which pierced my soul 
once more. Dorothy Winter wrote to me: 

“ I have been told of the good fortune you are an- 
ticipating, Anthony, and of the sweet young English 
girl you have won as your bride. Your old playmate 


228 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


must not be the last to hope and pray that she will 
bring you all happiness. My earnest good wishes are 
yours and hers. 

“ There is something I wish to tell you. I am not 
sure if this is right, but I have always been wilful, you 
know. If such disclosures are an offence to womanly 
delicacy in a general way, as we are taught, the cir- 
cumstances in this case being infrequent may excuse 
it, perhaps, especially when ’ tis made to you and you 
alone. 

“ I am not sure if you have heard that Richard 
Northcote has been practising law in this city for some 
time and very successfully. Also that, in one way or 
other — some people blame these ways — he has been 
prominent in politics, and is altogether looked on as a 
brilliant young man in circles where I am a frequent 
guest. I need not say that I have avoided him, but 
his determination is such that he sought opportunities 
of approaching me when the presence of strangers to 
our history prevented any rebuff more marked than 
coldness. Then his chance coming at last he made — 
too impetuously to be checked — the proffer of an 
eternal and ardent devotion, excused his very wicked- 
ness on that plea. But why need I repeat him, knowing 
that a man, even in ordinary cases, feels a contempt 
for the utterance of another man’s passion? 

“ Enough that I was compelled to listen, and — we 
have always acknowledged his cleverness and gifts — so 
impassioned were his pleadings, so overwhelmingly and 
painfully earnest he seemed, that some women — I say 
some women — would have felt here their temptation 
to repay a deep wound given by a friend. For, 
Anthony, you know my spirit is not one to be re- 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


229 


strained by a mere regard for the world’s opinion. 
Nor in this matter did I think chiefly of him who has 
gone. ’Twas of you I thought, and of you only. And 
when I sent him away with words he will not forget, 
and after which, I think, he will never willingly see 
me again, ’twas on your account alone. ’Tis a satis- 
faction I choose for myself to know this and tell it 
to you, and repeat it, about your enemy. 

“ And now, perhaps, you have heard that I am to be 
married very soon. The gentleman is much older than 
myself, learned, and of excellent parts. He has been 
appointed minister to Spain, and we sail immediately 
after the ceremony, to be abroad some time. Notwith- 
standing our last interview, I cling to the belief that I 
have your good wishes, and that I may sign myself, 
for the last time, 

“ Your friend, 

“ Dorothy Winter.” 

A fine rain was falling at intervals, but I could not 
stay in the house, and went to the stables to have my 
saddle, just taken from one animal, put on another, 
and rode forth again, leaving word that I would not 
be at home for the evening. Away into the night I 
rode, along country lanes that were as familiar to my 
horse and me in the darkness as in the light. I can 
recall now the trivial impressions of that ride, uncon- 
scious of them then. The drip of the soft, sprinkling 
rain from the leaves, the rustle of unseen animal or rep- 
tile gliding away from the horse’s hoofs, the locusts’ 
monotonous chirping, the dismal calling from tree-tops 
of owl or night-hawk, the odors of the moist soil or 
vegetation. Many miles I rode, the wet soaking into 


230 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN’S. 


saddle and clothing, as indifferent to that as to every- 
thing else; and the moon had risen high over Wood- 
hurst when I returned, and gave out a dull and hastily 
obscured beam as she struggled and fought her way 
through the masses of black and shifting clouds. My 
faithful sleepy Castor was the only one still up about 
the place to take my horse. When I lay down, then, 
wearied out in mind and body, ’twas after burying 
forever the dead past. 

Some months after Cousin Betty had excitedly read 
from the paper at the breakfast-table of the grand 
wedding and departure for Madrid of the minister to 
Spain and his bride, the beautiful Mnss Winter. Alice 
Sherwood timidly declared that her people were now ex- 
pecting her home. Then Cousin Betty spoke her mind 
to me in private, and from hopes she held out I ventured 
to ask our fair guest to remain at Woodhurst as its mis- 
tress. ’Tis a piece of good fortune, of which I knew 
my unworthiness, that this lovely English rose should 
have bloomed for me. That the fragrance of her vir- 
tues should have filled my home, I have been always 
grateful. 

A better wife and mother of his children no man 
ever had, and I trust I made her life a happy one. 
But when a keen love of adventure and certain spirit 
of soldiership, learned from Colonel Milton perhaps, 
and inherited besides, drove me into the Mexican War 
as captain, and to be wounded twice, she let me go 
with a brave smile. Nor did I know, until the war 
was over, the agony of dread and cruel suspense she 
suffered then. ’Twas after this, when her health failed 
and the doctor urgently advised a more bracing 
climate, that I left Woodhurst, against her self-sacrific- 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


231 


in g protest, and went to live North. The plantation 
was leased, Doubleday retaining the position of over- 
seer, and Cousin Betty, who dreaded cold, remained 
part of the year with Eleanor and part with us and 
our children, to whom she was a more abject slave 
than my Castor even. My wife’s health drooped at 
each attempt to return to a southern latitude, and at 
last both my home and pecuniary investments were 
made in the North. The latter prospered beyond ex- 
pectations. 

Our eldest son, Miles, was a tall and manly fel- 
low when his mother died in England, where I was 
with her on a visit. She left me with sacred words of 
farewell and blessing on her lips which I may not re- 
peat. It could hardly have wronged her that my sole 
secret treasure was a fan with trifling words once upon 
it erased, and in their stead a sketch, in the making of 
which I had some skill, of a face often before me in 
dreams. That beautiful face had long been cold in 
death before my wife left me. 

I was abroad when the civil war broke out, and my 
sons in the North. Of course my whole heart was with 
my State, and they, sharing my devotion, would no 
sooner have borne arms against her than they would 
have committed matricide. 

When that unequal conflict was over I hastened down 
to see my people, and alas! alas! for them and Wood- 
hurst. But I found a courage in misfortune: a cheer- 
ful taking up of unaccustomed burdens after the first 
agony was over which was admirable. My slaves 
were scattered in all directions, away from the pillaged 
and devastated plantation. A few very old ones stayed 
in their cabins, among them Jupiter, a veritable 


232 


IN OLD ST. STEPHEN'S. 


patriarch. The old fellow wept on seeing “ Mas’ 
Anthony,” and would fain have followed me, but at 
his age ’twas impossible. I persuaded Nell and her 
husband to leave their Edisto place — a heap of ruins — 
and take charge of Woodhurst with a hired force. 
’Twas a comfort to leave the old place, though so 
changed, with one of the family. 

But ’ t is not of that Woodhurst I dream in my long 
home-sickness of many years. ’Tis of the busy, 
thriving plantation of old with its numerous contented 
slaves. ’Tis of the pine forests through which wan- 
dered two happy-hearted boys and their train of merry, 
noisy little darkies. The breeze moves the boughs 
to and fro, their aromatic smell fills the air, the sun- 
shine glitters on leaf and flower, the birds chirp and 
flutter, a squirrel runs up a tree, bare feet go splashing 
through the creek, there is great laughing and shout- 
ing. “ Anthony! Anthony!” my brother calls. 

No, ’tis not his voice, but I shall lie at his side once 
more, before very long, ad Ripas Fluvii Santee . 


THE END. 


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14. A Recoiling Vengeance. By Frank Barrett. With Illustrations. 

15. The Secret of Fontaine-la- Croix. By Margaret Field. 

16. The Master of Bathkelly. By Hawley Smart. 

17. Donovan : A Modern Englishman. By Edna Lyall. 

18. This Mortal Coil. By Grant Allen. 

19. A Fair Emigrant. By Rosa Mulholland. 

20. The Apostate. By Ernest Daudet. 

21. Raleigh Westgate ; or, Epimenides in Maine. By Helen Kendrick Johnson. 

22. Arius the Libyan: A Romance of the Primitive Church. 

23. Constance, and Calbot's Rival. By Julian Hawthorne. 

24. We Two. By Edna Lyall. 

25. A Dreamer of Dreams. By the author of Thoth. 

26. The Ladies' Gallery. By Justin McCarthy, M. P., and Mrs. Campbell- 

Praed. 

27. The Reproach of Annesley. By Maxwell Grey. 

28. Near to Happiness. 

29. In the Wire- Grass. By Louis Pendleton. 

30. Lace. A Berlin Romance. By Paul Lindau. 

31. American Coin. A Novel. By the author of Aristocracy. 

32. Won by Waiting. By Edna Lyall. 

33. The Story of Helen Davenant. By Violet Fane. 

34. The Light of Her Countenance. By H. H. Boyesen. 

35. Mistress Beatrice Cope; or, Passages in the Life of a Jacobite's Daughter. 

By M. E. Le Clerc. 

36. The Knight- Errant. By Edna Lyall. 

37. In the Golden Days. By Edna Lyall. 

38. Giraldi ; or, The Curse of Love. By Ross George Dering. 

39. A Hardy Norseman. By Edna Lyall. 

40. The Romance of Jenny Harlowe, and Sketches of Maritime Life. By W. 

Clark Russell. 

41. Passion's Slave. By Richard Ashe-King. 

42. The Awakening of Mary Fenwick. By Beatrice Whitby. 

43. Countess Loreley. Translated from the German of Rudolf Menger. 

41. Blind Love. By Wilkie Collins. 

45. The Dean's Daughter. By Sophie F. F. Veitch. 

46. Countess Irene. A Romance of Austrian Life. By J. Fogerty. 

47. Robert Browning's Principal Shorter Poems. 

48. Frozen Hearts. By G. Webb Appleton. 

49. Djambek the Georgian. By A. G. von Suttner. 

50. The Craze of Christian Engelhart. By Henry Faulkner Darnell. 

51. Lai. By William A. Hammond, ^M. I). 

52. Aline. A Novel. By Henry Greville. 

53. Joost Avelingh. A Dutch Story. By Maarten Maartens. 

54. Katy of Catoctin. By George Alfred Townsend. 

55. Throckmorton. A Novel. By Molly Elliot Seawell. 

56. Expatriation. By the author of Aristocracy. 

57. Geoffrey Hampstead. By T. S. Jarvis. 


APPLETONS’ TOWN AND COUNTRY LIBRARY.— ( Continued.') 


58. Dmitri. A Romance of Old Russia. By F. W. Bain, M. A. 

59. Part of the Property. By Beatrice Whitby. 

GO. Bismarck in Private Life. By a Fellow Student. 

Gl. In Low Relief. By Mobley Roberts. 

62. The Canadians of Old. An Historical Romance. By Philippe Gasp£. 

63. A Squire of Lou) Degree. By Lily A. Long. 

64. A Fluttered Dovecote. By George Manville Fenn. 

65. The Nugents of Carriconna. An Irish Story. By Tighe Hopkins. 

66. A Sensitive Plant. By E. and D. Gerard. 

67. Doha Luz. By Don Juan Valera. Translated by Mrs. Mary J. Serrano. 

68. Pepita Ximenez. By Don Juan Valera. Translated by Mrs. Mary J. 

Serrano. 

69. The Primes and their Neighbors. Tales of Middle Georgia. By Richard 

Malcolm Johnston. 

70. The Iron Game. By Henry F. Keenan. 

71. Stories of Old New Spain. By Thomas A. Janvier. 

72. The Maid of Honor. By Hon. Lewis Wingfield. 

73. In the Heart of the Storm. By Maxwell Grey. 

74. Consequences. By Egerton Castle. 

75. The Three Miss Kings. By Ada Cambridge. 

76. A Matter of Skill. By Beatrice Whitby. 

77. Maid Marian, and other Stories. By Molly Elliot Seawell. 

78. One Woman's Way. By Edmund Pendleton. 

79. A Merciful Divorce. By F. W. Maude. 

80. Stephen EUicotVs Daughter. By Mrs. J. H. Needell. 

81. One Reason Why . By Beatrice Whitby. 

82. The Tragedy of Ida Noble. By W. Clark Russell. 

83. The Johnstown Stage, and other Stories. By Robert H. Fletcher. 

84. A Widower Indeed. By Rhoda Broughton and Elizabeth Bisland. 

85. The Flight of the Shadow. By George MacDonald. 

86. Love or Money. By Katharine Lee. 

87. Not All in Vain. By Ada Cambridge. 

88. It Happened Yesterday. By Frederick Marshall. 

89. My Guardian. By Ada Cambridge. 

90. The Story of Philip Methuen. By Mrs. J. H. Needell. 

91. Amethyst: The Story of a Beauty. By Christabel R. Coleridge. 

92. Don Braulio. By Juan Valera. Translated by Clara Bell. 

93. Dukesborough Tales. By Richard Malcolm Johnston. 

94. A Queen of Curds and Cream. By Dorothea Gerard. 

95. “ La Bella ” and Others. By Egerton Castle. 

96. “ December Roses.” By Mrs. Campbell-Praed. 

97. Jean de Kerdren. By Jeanne Schultz. 

98. Etelka's Vow. By Dorothea Gerard. 

99. Cross Currents. By Mary A. Dickens. 

100. His Life's Magnet. By Theodora Elmslie. 

Each, 12mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents and $1.00. 


“ Admittance to Appletons’ Town and Country Library is a sufficient recom- 
mendation for any novel, for we know of no series that has been kept so free from 
trash or sensationalism .” — Albany Argus. 

“ The publishers of the Town and Country Library have been either par- 
ticularly sagacious or very fortunate in the selection of the novels that have thus 
far appeared in this excellent series. Not one is lacking in positive merit, and the 
majority are much above the average fiction of the day. Any person who likes a 
good story well told can buy any issue in the Town and Country Library with the 
utmost confidence of finding something well worth while .” — Boston Beacon. 

“ Each is by a story-writer of experience, and affords a few hours of agreeable 
fentertainment. ”— Cincinnati Times-Star. 


New York : D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 


^VV THE PLANT A TION. 
y By Joel Chandler Harris, au- 
thor of “Uncle Remus.” With 
23 Illustrations by E. W. Kem- 
ble, and Portrait of the Author. 
i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

The most personal and in some re- 
spects the most important work which 
Mr. Harris has published since “Uncle 
Remus.” Many will read between the 
lines and see the autobiography of the 
author. In addition to the stirring inci- 
dents which appear in the story, the au- 
thor presents a graphic picture of certain 
phases of Southern life which have not 
appeared in his books before. There are also new examples of the folk-loie 
of the negroes, which became classic when presented to the public in the 
pages of “ Uncle Remus.’’ 

“The book is in the characteristic vein which has made the author so famous and 
popular as an interpreter of plantation character.” — Rochester Lnion and Advertiser. 

“Those who never tire of Uncle Remus and his stories— with whom we would be 
accounted — will delight in Joe Maxwell and his exploits.” — London Saturday Review. 

“ Altogether a most charming book/ — Chicago Times. 

“ Really a valuable, if modest, contribution to the history of the civil war within the 
Confederate lines, particularly on the eve of the catastrophe. While Mr. Harris, in his 
preface, professes to have lost the power to distinguish between what is true and what 
is imaginative in his episodical narrative, the reader readily finds the clew. Two or 
three new animal fables are introduced with effect; but the history of the plantation, the 
printing-office, the black runaways, and white deserters, of whom the impending break- 
up made the community tolerant, the coon and fox hunting, forms the serious purpose 
of the book, and holds the reader’s interest from beginning to end. Like ‘Daddy Jake/ 
this is a good anti slavery tract in disguise, and does credit to Mr. Harris’s humanity. 
There are amusing illustrations by E. W. Kemble.” — New York Evening Post. 

“A charming little book, tastefully gotten up. . . . Its simplicity, humor, and indi- 
viduality would be very welcome to any one who was weary of the pretentiousness and 
the dull obviousness of the average three-vclume novel.”— London Chronicle. 

“ T.he mirage of war vanishes and reappears like an ominous shadow on the horizon, 
but the stay-at-home whites of the Southern Confederacy were likewise threatened by 
fears of a servile insurrection. This dark dread exerts its influence on a narration which 
is otherwise cheery with boyhood’s fortunate freedom from anxiety, and sublime disre- 
gard for what the morrow may bring forth. The simple chronicle of old times ‘on the 
plantation ’ concludes all too soon ; the fire burns low and the tale is ended just as the 
reader becomes acclimated to the mid-Georgian village, and feels thoroughly at home 
with Joe and Mink. The ‘ Owl and the Birds/ ‘ Old Zip Coon,’ the ‘Big Injun and 
the Buzzard,' are joyous echoes of the plantation-lore that first delighted us in ‘ Uncle 
Remus.’ Kemble’s illustrations, evidently studied from life, are interspersed in these 
pages of a book of consummate charm.” — Philadelphia Ledger. 



New York . D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street. 


PPLETONS’ SUMMER SERIES. 

Each , 16mo, half cloth, with specially designed cover, 50 cents. 


[R. FORTNER’S MARITAL CLAIMS, 

AND OTHER STORIES. By Richard Malcolm Johnston, 
author of “ Dukesborough Tales,” “ Widow Guthrie,” etc. 

“ Mr. Johnston is one of the best living chroniclers of Southern rural life and character.” — 
j Charleston * News and Courier. 

PEOPLE AT PISGAH. 

By Edwin W. Sanborn. 

A story full of the charm of the unexpected, certain to promote good spirits, and 
pre-eminently adapted to the requirements of summer readers. 

GRAMERCY PARK. A Story of New York. 

By John Seymour' Wood. 

“ A realistic story of New York life, in which one may read a strong lesson between the 
line*;. The sttory is vividly drawn, full of brilliant sketches of life.” — Boston Daily Advertiser. 

A TALE OF TWENTY-FIVE HOURS. 

By Brander Matthews and George H. Jessop. 

“ The manner in which Paul Stuy vesant enters upon his piece of amateur detective work is 
most amusingly related, and the denotiment is a clever bit of jugglery at which the reader is 
pretty sure to have a hearty laugh.” — Boston Beacon. 

A LITTLE NORSK ; or, Ol’ Pap’s Flaxen. 

By Hamlin Garland, author of “ Main Traveled Roads,” etc. 

“ Recent American fiction can show nothing better than Mr. Garland's work.” — Chicago 
Times. 

ON THE LAKE OF LUCERNE, and other Stories. 

By Beatrice Whitby, author of “A Matter of Skill,” “The Awak- 
ening of Mary Fenwick,” etc. 

“Six short stories carefully and conscientiously finished, and told with the graceful ease 
of the practiced raconteur .” — Literary Digest. 

ADOPTING AN ABANDONED FARM. 

By Kate Sanborn. 


hb ! 


“A laughable picture of the grievous experiences of a young woman who sought to demon- 
strate the idea that a woman can farm. . . . The drakes refused to lay; the vegetables re- 
fused to come up; and the taxes would not go down.” — Minneapolis Tribune. 

FROM SHADOW TO SUNLIGHT. 

By the Marquis of Lorne. 

“A ready good bit of aristocratic literary wor’-. . . . The theme chosen by the Marquis 
makes his story attractive to Americans.” — Chicago Tribune. 

TOURMALIN’S TIME CHEQUES. 

By F. Anstey, author of “ Vice Versa,” “ The Giant’s Robe,” etc. 

‘•‘Mr. Anstey has done nothing more original or fantastic with more success.” — The Nation . 


New York: D. APPLETON* & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street. 


Capt’n Davy’s Honeymoon. 


A Manx Yarn. 

By Hall Caine, author of The Deemster,” “ The Scape-Goat,” etc. 12111c 
Cloth, $1.00. 

“ A new departure by this author. Unlike his previous works, this little tale i 
almost wholly humorous, with, however, a current of pathos underneath. It is no 
always that an author can succeed equally well in tragedy and in comedy, but i 
looks as though Mr. Hall Caine would be one of the exceptions.” — London Literary 
' World. 

“ Constructed with great ingenuity. The story is full of delight.” — Boston Ad- 
vertiser. 

“A rollicking story of Manx life, well told. ... Mr. Caine has really written 
no book superior in character-drawing and dramatic force to this little comedy.” — 

Boston Beacon . 

“It is pleasant to meet the author of ‘ The Deemster * in a brightly humorous 
little story like this, ... It shows the same observation of Manx character and 
much of the same artistic skill. ” — Philadelphia Times. 





GEORG EBERS’S NEW ROMANCE. 



(Per Aspera.) 


By Georg Ebers, author of “ Uarda,” “ An Egyptian Princess,” etc. Two 
volumes. i6mo.. Paper, 80 cents ; cloth, $1.50 

“ Georg Ebers writes stories of ancient time with the conscientiousness of a true 
investigator. His tales are so carefully told that large portions of them might be 
clipped or quoted by editors of guide-books and authors of histories intended to be 
popular.” — New York Herald. 

4 4 One of this eminent author’s most effective works. The characters, without 
exception, are portrayed with masterly skill, and the book is one of the best of the 
season . ” — Congregationalist. 

“ The story is one of ingenious construction, the characters, many of which are 
historical, are well portrayed, and the local coloring is as true as any one could make 
it.” — Philadelphia Bulletin . 

“ Dr. Ebers’s historical novels may be relied on for truth of description and set- 
ting. . . . The story of the heroine’s conversion to Christianity is well told, and the 
whole work is full of stirring scenes and dramatic situations.” — Evangelist. 

“We find all the minute accuracy and archaeological exactness in this tale that 
mark all of its author's works.” — Christian Union. 


A full list of Georg Ebers' s Egyptian romances sent to any address on 

request. 


New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street. 




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